Twenty four Clear Hours
by EDuse2
Summary: Steve has a long overdue day off, but nothing goes quite as he plans. All done. I hope I gave you even half as good a time as you gave me. Thank you.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I've been picking away at this story for a long time. It's not the usual fanfic, pure slapstick, really, so it often owes more to hyperbole than realism, but it is in keeping with the occasional tone of the show. It's just for fun, and it's my tribute to what I like best about Steve. _

_No, not THAT - though I DO like that - I mean, I'm not blind. I like many things about Steve - his courage, his decency, his humor - and THAT - but what I like best is his big, squishy heart. He seems about incapable of saying "no" to anyone he loves. (Well, okay, he SAYS it - gets it out of the way - then folds like a cheap card table and gives in.) Gets me every time. I could give endless examples, but you've all seen the show. _

_Remember, this is comedy. Check your seriousness at the door. _

Twenty-four Clear Hours

By EDuse2

(June 2005)

_**1. Good Fences Make Good Neighbors**_

The smell reached him just as he exited the shower and he smiled.

_French toast. _

Stuffed French toast, if he was lucky, and that smelled like bacon too. He blotted steam from the mirror and reached for his shaving cream.

Twenty-four hours. He had twenty-four hours free and clear - no precinct, no _BBQ Bob's_, no dead bodies - nothing he had to do but please himself. Watch a game on TV, read his new motorcycle magazine…maybe even get in a little surfing. He scraped at his early morning beard, pausing to control the urge to smile when the aroma of fresh coffee joined the other smells. Dad must be going in late today if he was fussing over breakfast like that.

He rinsed his razor in the sink and started on the other side of his face. Normally, he enjoyed his job…_jobs_, he corrected himself silently…but he'd worked three double shifts this week, and when he hadn't been on duty, he had been at _Bob's_, trying to pick up the slack in the wait staff. Seemed like all he had done in between was come home to crash and sleep - when he slept. Some of those nights had been pretty brief.

He toweled off his face and went to pull on some clothes. If his dad was taking this much trouble over breakfast, he didn't want to give it a chance to get cold. He took the stairs in a couple of bounds. He could just make out his father's figure moving back and forth from the kitchen to the deck and gave an inward sigh of satisfaction. French toast in the fresh air. It's didn't get any better than this. It was going to be a great day.

"Morning, Dad," he said cheerfully as he stepped out onto the deck, carrying a cup of coffee he had snagged along the way. "Beautiful day."

"That it is." Mark set a platter of bacon on the table next to a pitcher of juice. "Ready for some French toast?"

"I'm starved," Steve admitted, pulling up a chair. "You have a later shift today?"

"Oh, no, I'm off too - well, I'm on call for Dr. Kessler, but other than that, my day is clear. How about you? Any plans for today?"

"Absolutely none," Steve answered with satisfaction. "I'm just going to take it as it comes. Can't even remember the last time I wasn't running on a tight schedule. I can't wait to give it a try."

"Well, maybe we can do something together, then, later." Mark disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying two plates piled high with French toast, with strawberries and cream cheese oozing out of the sides and a pristine dusting of powdered sugar on top.

Steve's mouth all but watered at the sight of it. "That'd be great." He picked up his knife and fork. "And that _looks_ great."

"Well, I knew you had time for a leisurely breakfast, so I thought I'd do something special."

Steve mumbled his thanks around a mouthful of bacon.

"I'm glad you were able to sleep in for a change. Nothing disturbed you, did it?"

Steve managed to swallow the bacon and followed it with a generous forkful of French toast. "I don't think anything could have disturbed me. I was dead to the world. How about you. Sleep okay?"

"Oh, not bad. Considering."

Steve glanced up as Mark dug into his own French toast. The last word seemed to dangle in the air between them and the day was suddenly just a touch less golden. For a second Steve toyed with just letting the comment pass, but somehow, he couldn't. "Considering…?" he finally ventured cautiously.

Mark tried his orange juice. "The _noise_. I'm just surprised you didn't hear it. I'm glad, too, of course."

"Yeah. Me too." Steve spoke with finality, dropping his eyes back to his breakfast.

"But it was so _loud_. And disturbing. I was sure someone was going to call the police." Mark laughed lightly. "Of course, you _are_ the police."

The French toast turned to dust in Steve's mouth. He put down his fork. "Dad. No."

Mark opened his eyes ingenuously. "No to what? I'm just telling you about last night."

"I don't know to what. But whatever it is, the answer is no."

"I didn't ask you to do anything!"

"Good."

"I know it's your day off."

Steve viciously skewered another piece of French toast. "That's right."

"And you haven't had one in ages…"

"Three weeks, Dad. It's been three weeks. The station OR Bob's. I'm really fried."

"I've noticed that. Which is why I'm glad you have today free."

"Right." Steve busied himself with his bacon.

"Of course, calling on a neighbor - in an unofficial capacity, of course - that would just be being social."

Steve reached for the paper and rattled it pointedly open. "I'm not feeling especially social," he clipped, searching for the sports page.

"It would only take a second or two. Just to make sure everything was all right."

"Dad," Steve dropped his paper to fix him with an uncompromising glare. "Any cop knows that you don't just wander into a domestic situation. It could be deadly." He flipped the paper back up decidedly.

"Oh, well, for a cop - " Mark smiled engagingly. "But a neighbor - just, say, dropping by with a coffee cake or something…"

Steve let the paper fold down again, eyeing him resignedly. He sighed. "You've already baked the coffee cake, haven't you?"

Mark smiled confidingly. "I've baked two. In case you wanted some."

"And I'm not going to get to enjoy my day until I do something about this, am I?"

Mark looked apologetic. "I'm just a little worried about the woman, Steve - it sounded very violent after a while. If I could just be sure she was all right…I'd go myself…"

"No," Steve was firm, throwing down the paper and climbing to his feet. "I don't want you putting yourself in the middle of it. Where's your coffee cake? I'll make the call."

Mark eyed him dubiously. "You can finish your breakfast first…"

"No…" Steve wiped his hands on his napkin. "I'm not sitting here trying to eat while you look worried and wistful. Keep it warm for me, will you? Hopefully, I'll be right back."

0000

He wasn't exactly right back, but Mark was still surprised at how little time passed before he heard Steve's feet on the stairs. They seemed to be approaching at an unusually slow rate, so he got up to meet him halfway. "Well, you were certainly brisk about it! How was - " He stopped dead, his mouth hinging open. "Good Lord. What on earth happened?"

Steve brushed past him. "I don't know what you mean," he drawled, making his way toward the kitchen. "I've just been paying a little neighborly call. They loved the coffee cake, by the way." He held up half of a blue ceramic plate, setting it on the counter as he turned on the faucet and let the water run to get cold.

Mark stared at the jagged break where another half of a plate used to be, then back at Steve, noting that his t-shirt had been half-torn away at one shoulder. Awkwardly, he tried to arrange it to cover the now bare arm, frowned at the long red scratches he found along the skin there. He looked more closely. "Did he _bite_ you?" he exclaimed, stunned.

Steve was splashing cold water on his left eye and didn't bother to look up. "Not him. Her."

"Her? The wife?"

"That's the one."

"That little woman…?"

"Please. I've seen Sumo wrestlers with less heft."

"But why…?"

Steve found a dishtowel and ran it under the water, then pressed it against his eye with a sigh. "Seems she objected to someone getting aggressive with her little poopsie."

"Her little…the husband?"

"That would be him." Steve fingered the remains of his t-shirt. "I think I'd better change."

"No - wait - let me, uh - " Mark pulled him to one of the counter stools and pushed him onto it. "Let me put some antiseptic on that bite, at least. The human mouth is just full of toxic substances - "

"And you didn't even hear her."

Mark checked to be sure Steve looked likely to stay put and dashed to the bedroom for his medical bag. He was routing through it as he returned. "So what did you do that was so aggressive…?"

"Nothing!" Steve dropped the towel indignantly and Mark pushed it back, letting go of the bag for a minute to rummage in the freezer for an ice pack. He wrapped the towel around it and positioned it back over Steve's eye. "Unless you call offering a coffee cake aggressive."

Mark was sponging the bite mark clean but he glanced up over his glasses at that. "Steve. You must have done something."

"Nothing. I swear. Turns out they knew I was a cop and I guess they jumped to the conclusion that I had come to tell them to keep it down at night. I take it this isn't the first time for them. They decided that the best defense is a good offense. She jumped right on my back. Think I'm going to need it cracked."

Mark reached for the antiseptic and a Q-tip. "And no one seemed to be hurt? I'm telling you, you wouldn't have believed the ruckus."

"Well, get used to it. I think that's just the way they - er - warm up."

Mark blinked, trying to follow his meaning, then his mouth dropped. "But - it sounded so _violent_."

"Yeah, well, some people like it that way." Mark gave him an uncomfortable, questioning glance and he continued hastily. "I didn't mean me! Geez, Dad! I meant that I see a lot of that kind of thing in my line of work!"

Mark was silent as he taped gauze over the bite. "And you really think they…?"

"Yeah, in fact, they were already sort of starting to - look, don't make me remember it, okay? It wasn't pretty."

"All right." Mark dabbed hydrogen peroxide at the scratches and Steve hissed. "It'll only take a second. I swear, you're better about a bullet wound than you are about this sort of thing." He added more antiseptic cream. "Well, look on the bright side, Steve - you did a good deed, and - "

"And no good deed goes unpunished. Thanks. I'm getting another t-shirt."

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: That's the spirit, kittn!_

_**2. An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away**_

"How's your magazine?"

Steve turned a page of the latest edition of _Motocross_ without looking up. "Great. The right side, anyway." He smiled a bit in response to his father's appreciative chuckle, knowing he'd been testing the emotional waters and was pleased to find them less than icy. Well, it really was a beautiful day, and he had no intention on wasting it with being disgruntled.

"You know, I had planned to cook a steak for lunch, but now I think it might do more good on your eye."

"I thought that was a wive's tale - steak for a black eye."

"Well, they probably used to use them because they were cool and moist more than anything else - the ice pack is really better, though you'll want to replace it with moist heat tomorrow. Need the ice refreshed?"

Steve lowered the ice pack and tossed it aside. "No - it's fine. I don't really need it any more."

"How's the bite?"

"It's nothing. Don't think I've had one of those since Carol got old enough to stop that sort of thing." Mark tossed something lightly underhand and Steve automatically snatched it out of the air. "What's this?"

"Amoxycillin. Standard treatment for human bites. How's your tetanus inoculation? Up to date?"

"I don't know. I guess." Steve frowned, suddenly catching his meaning. "Dad, I'm _not_ spending my day off at the hospital letting somebody stick me with a big needle."

Mark hovered uncertainly. "Well, I'll just make a quick call and have somebody peek at your file, then. Oh, and Steve - take those with water - " he groaned as Steve read the label and popped two into his mouth.

Steve looked innocent. "What? I don't have any water."

Mark made a face. "And make sure you take all of those -"

"I know about antibiotics, Dad."

"Hm." Mark looked unconvinced. "Let me make that call. Say, you feel like a nice walk before lunch? We can stroll along the ocean and catch up. I feel like I haven't seen you in ages. Then when we get back, I'll fix that steak."

"Sounds like a plan."

0000

Steve didn't even have to look up to know that his father had returned and that he was not bearing good news – he'd recognize that guilty, hovering presence anywhere – even before he heard a throat clear tentatively.

"I'm sorry, Steve," Mark began apologetically. "But it looks like our walk is going to have to wait. I have to go in – one of Dr. Kessler's patients – "

Steve lowered his magazine. "That's too bad," he said sympathetically. "I'll see you later, then."

"Actually…" Mark's smile took on the forced enthusiasm of a used care salesman's. "Why don't you drive me? Then we can catch up on the way. We can even see what they're serving for lunch at the cafeteria."

Steve eyed him suspiciously. "You hate the food at the cafeteria."

Mark nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do. But for you, son of mine…"

"Dad." Steve tried his most uncompromising police tone. "I said 'no'."

Mark widened his eyes innocently. "I just thought we could have lunch! And I could use the ride – my car's in the shop."

"Your car is in the garage. I saw it last night."

"Well," Mark brushed aside this pesky detail. "It should be in the shop. It would be much safer if you would drive me. Unless you don't mind me taking the truck…?" Mark's smile broadened slightly, indicating he knew exactly what the answer to that would be.

Steve stared at him for a moment, like a perp caught in his own gun sights, then he threw down his magazine with a sigh of resignation. "I'll get my wallet. But Dad – "

"Yes, son?" Mark's smiled benevolently, his expression imbued with the kind tolerance of one who knew he'd trumped every ace.

"I am NOT getting a shot."

Mark looked wounded. "Steve, I just need a ride."

"Yeah. Right." Steve started down the deck stairs. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm the one being taken for a ride?"

0000

"I can't believe you did that!"

"Now, Steve - " Mark had to hustle to keep up with his son's long strides. "It was absolutely necessary - "

"It was an ambush!" Steve hammered his finger into the elevator button, then reached up to cradle his biceps tenderly. "And now I have two bad arms!"

"Oh, now, it will only hurt for a bit. And tetanus is a very nasty disease! I'd hate to see you go through something like that!"

Steve scowled, stepping into the elevator as the doors opened. "I've been fine so far."

"You've been very lucky. You should never let your booster lapse, _especially_ in your line of work! In fist fights, pawing through dumpsters, crawling through alleys…I intend to see that you stay up to date on it from now on!"

"Great." Steve glared at the carpeted floor of the elevator.

"And now that it's all over, we can have a nice lunch." Mark smiled coaxingly. "It's pigs in a blanket today."

Steve looked reluctantly mollified. "Really?"

"Would I lie to you about something like that?"

Steve fixed him with a glare. "Why should that be any different than the shot?"

"Steve!" Mark looked shocked. "It's one thing to use a little sleight of hand involving your physical well being, I would never mislead you about something like this."

"I guess not." Steve stepped out of the elevator as the doors slid open, his pace more moderate. "Is it really pigs in a blanket?"

"Oh, yes. And I'm buying."

"Good." Steve led the way to the cafeteria. "I thought you had a patient you had to check on?"

"I have some x-rays I need to look at, but they won't be ready for another half hour. Plenty of time for a nice lunch with my son."

Steve handed him a tray from the stack and looked a little more cheerful as he picked up a plate of steaming pigs in a blanket. He added a glass of juice and smiled a little more. "You want some?"

Mark made a face. "Uh - no…I think I'll make do with a sandwich."

"Don't know what you're missing."

"Actually, I do."

Steve shook his head, sliding his tray onto the nearest table.

Mark picked up a tuna sandwich and got comfortable next to him. "So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?"

Steve took a mouthful of juice, then forked a couple of the biscuit-wrapped dogs. "Well, I'd like to finish my magazine - maybe squeeze in a little surfing or check out the batting cages."

"Just see that you keep that bite wound clean."

Steve grunted non-committally. "How long you plan on being here?"

"Maybe another hour. We could still have that walk, if you like."

Steve nodded, swallowing another pig in a blanket.

Mark winced. "Steve, I wish you'd chew just a little…"

Steve opened his eyes innocently. "I do. More or less."

"More would be better."

Steve slowed his chewing, his expression pensive.

Mark smiled. "How about dinner out tonight? We could check out that new Pakistani restaurant."

Steve's chewing slowed further. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. That would be nice."

"Maybe take in a movie? There's a new James Bond out." He watched Steve swallow carefully. "Steve?"

"Hm?" Steve squinted at him. "Oh. Sure. Sounds good, Dad."

"Good. We could even stop for ice cream after - just like old times. Oh, and Steve - "

"Dad?" Steve broke in abruptly, his expression so peculiar that Mark paused, perplexed. "Are there any - side effects - to tetanus shots?"

Mark looked thoughtful. "Oh, no, not really. A little soreness and stiffness in the arm for a couple of days, maybe. Of course, in some very rare cases, people experience hives. Or sometimes a low grade fever. Some even develop a little nausea - "

"That's the one - " Steve stood hastily. He made it as far as the hall before his pigs in a blanket made a return trip.

0000

"Go away." Steve didn't even lift the damp washcloth to look - he didn't have to. He'd know those footsteps anywhere.

He felt a hand gently press the cloth more firmly over his eyes, then another cloth dab at the lower part of his face. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. How's the stomach?"

"Check the floor outside the cafeteria. I think I left it there."

A faint chuckle in response. "Sounds like you're feeling better."

Better. Better than what? First he didn't get to finish his breakfast and now he'd lost his lunch. And his beautiful free day was sliding away, right before his…he pulled the cloth away from his face and blinked. "What time is it?"

"Almost 12:30. Why?"

"Are you almost done here?"

"Oh, in another hour or so, I'd say. I'm waiting on some tests, and then - "

"Do you think you could find a ride home?"

"I'm sure I could, but - "

Steve nodded. "I've got to go."

He could hear the frown in his father's voice. "I'm not sure you should be driving until you're a little steadier. Why don't you lie here a little longer, then - "

"I'm fine." Steve sat up swiftly, then grabbed for the sides of the examining table. _Whoa. Mostly fine, anyway._ But his day was disappearing, and it could still be salvaged, if he could only get back to the beach and his lounge chair and his magazine. "I feel much better," he added firmly, trying to convince both of them. "I really want to go home, Dad."

"Well…all right…" Mark didn't sound happy. "I'm going to give you something for your stomach, so be sure you take it. And don't stop at _Burger Boy _on the way home."

Steve's feet had just hit the floor, and he had to stop and grip the examining table again, swallowing decidedly. "Dad," His voice was a little faint. "Please don't even mention _Burger Boy _right now?"

"Yes, all right…see that you take it nice and easy, though, okay?"

"I promise, that's exactly what I have in mind." His stomach gave a warning lift and he closed his eyes for a second to let it pass. One thing was for sure - surfing was definitely out. Just the thought of riding a swell…he had to stop and swallow again. He opened his eyes and brushed ineffectually at the drying stain on his shirtfront. "Looks like I need a clean t-shirt anyway."

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I know, I know - poor Steve can't catch a break. Bad me. Wish I could tell you it gets better for him. _

_Not sure why the site refuses to let me put a hyphen in "Twenty-four", but, alas, it does. Avert your eyes. I know I do._

_**3. A Friend In Need**_

Steve gave a contented sigh. This was more like it.

He was stretched out in a lounge chair with the sun on his face and the softest of ocean breezes kissing his hair, wearing an unstained and un-torn t-shirt, a tall glass of sparkling water at his elbow. He had actually had his heart set on a beer, but the smell as he'd popped the top off of the bottle had sent his traitorous stomach sliding into his throat again, and he had hastily switched to something more neutral. He took a sip. Not so bad. At least he'd finally made it to the second page of his article. And he still had the whole afternoon and evening stretching out before him. He had every intention of taking full advantage of them.

The breeze lifted his bangs as he turned the page. Maybe a little later he'd take the bike out. His stomach should have settled down by then and - the telephone rang.

Steve froze. _NO. Just - no._

It rang again, and he closed his eyes. All right - it couldn't be anything important for his father or they'd have found him at the hospital. It couldn't be the station, because they'd have used his cell. So it couldn't be anything urgent at all. He'd just let the machine pick up.

It rang again, and he hunkered a shoulder stubbornly away from it. No reason to jump every time the phone rang. It was his day off. It was probably a telemarketer anyway.

The phone rang again and the machine kicked in. He heard his father's cheerful recorded greeting with half an ear while admiring a photo of a new performance dirt bike. That'd be a nice ride. A little out of his budget range, of course, but -

"Hello, Mark?" Amanda's voice came over the machine, broken by a little telltale quaver.

Steve winced.

"It's Amanda." A pathetic sniff.

Steve writhed with frustration, but he was already on his feet.

"Are you home? I know you have today off - "

"Hello?" Steve hoped he didn't sound as beaten as he felt. "Hi, Amanda. It's Steve. What's up?"

"Oh, Steve," tears definitely clouded her voice this time. "Is Mark there?"

"Uh - no. He was called in to the hospital. I expect him back in about an hour, though."

"Oh." The quaver grew more pronounced.

Steve took a deep, resigned breath. "Something I can help with?"

"Oh, I don't know - " The tears were coming full force now. "It's just that - well - Ron and I had a fight - a horrible fight - and now he wants to meet with me to talk before he has to fly back to Virginia, but my Mom isn't around to watch CJ and of course we can't have a discussion like that with him around - " Her voice caught on a sob and Steve scratched nervously at his forehead with his thumb.

"I was hoping Mark could watch him for a while, but an hour from now will be too late and…" _Sniff._ "I guess it just wasn't meant to be. But…I don't suppose you…?" There was a meek little hopeful note in her voice now, and Steve groaned silently.

"You know I'm no good with babies, Amanda. I'm okay once they get a little bigger, but - "

"He's really very good." Now that the idea had taken hold, Amanda's characteristic optimism seemed to be rebounding. "And if Mark is going to be home soon - "

Steve dropped his head. "Amanda, I'm just afraid I'm not the right person to be responsible - "

"I know, I know!" Amanda began to cry in earnest. "I'm sorry. I was just hoping - but you know how hard it is to meet somebody, Steve, and I'm just afraid I'd always wonder - "

Steve closed his eyes. He knew she wasn't being intentionally manipulative, but surely she knew that when she was crying like that, all he could say was…? "Just for an hour?" he choked reluctantly.

"Oh, Steve!" The burst of tears in Amanda's voice - happy tears, this time - almost made it worth it. "You won't regret it! He's very good and I'll bring everything you need and Mark will be there soon - I can never thank you enough - "

"Yeah, well - " It was hard to feel too badly in the face of Amanda's happiness. "Just write everything down for me, okay? And tell Wagner that he owes me. Big time."

"I will." Amanda sniffed again and he couldn't suppress a slight smile at the image of her dashing the backs of her hands at her eyes. "I'll be right there. Thank you so much, Steve. I really appreciate this. You won't regret it - "

The connection broke and Steve stood staring at the receiver. With the absence of Amanda's happy voice, reality was creeping back in and he shuddered. "What are the odds?" he muttered, returning slowly to his lounge chair. He stretched out, frowning. What had he gotten himself into? Babies were so small. And they needed so many things. He had never been able to keep track of all the essentials. Besides, they just didn't seem to like him. Maybe they could tell he was nervous or something…

He stared at his magazine, but all thoughts of dirt bikes had flown. Of course, it was only for an hour…then his dad would be back and he could take over. It was after lunch, so maybe it would be CJ's nap time…He gave one more wistful glance at his article and put the magazine aside. He should probably be baby-proofing things. Well, maybe he'd get lucky and CJ would have a taste for dirt bikes.

0000

Steve had found himself in any number of standoffs throughout the years. He had locked eyes with a Viet Cong over the arc of a submachine gun. Stared down many a murderer over the breach of his nine millimeter. He'd even gone eyeball to eyeball with a rabid German Shepherd once and managed toget off a shot before the dog could spring. He couldn't imagine why none of those had been half as scary as the pair of wide brown eyes he was confronting now. And CJ didn't even have a gun.

CJ had been unceremoniously dumped in his soft net playpen by his mother, who had opened it one-handed with a deft snap of foot and knee and covered his woolly head with good-bye kisses. She had divested herself of a car seat, collapsible stroller, bouncy seat, bag of extra books, bag of extra clothes, and a diaper bag so voluminous that it looked as though she was trying to smuggle an RV in it.

Steve had watched the proceedings with growing alarm. "Just how long are you planning on being gone?" he had blurted at last, as the tower of kiddy paraphernalia swelled to staggering proportions.

Amanda waved a hand airily. "A lot of this is 'just in case'. I've found that you can never be too prepared with a child. If you decide to take a walk or a drive, you'll be all set. Now, I think he's cutting a tooth, so he's drooling a lot and he may be just a tiny bit cranky. Right, sweetie?" This with an adoring glance at CJ. "But it shouldn't be much of a problem. He loves to chew on this ring, and if he seems really uncomfortable, just put it in the freezer for a few minutes. He usually takes a nap around three, but I should be back by then. Tell Mark not to spoil him too much." She stood on tip-toe and kissed Steve's cheek. "I can't thank you enough for pinch-hitting, Steve. I just know he'll be an angel for you." With that, and with an admonishment to be a good boy for Uncle Steve and Uncle Mark, she had jumped into her SUV, wheeled it, and torn out of the driveway with a skill and speed that Mario Andretti might have envied; leaving both Steve and CJ staring after her wistfully. Then they stared at each other for a long moment, taking each other's measure.

Steve swallowed. He wished he shared Amanda's confidence. So, what was he supposed to do now? Amanda said CJ'd already had lunch, so…was he supposed to talk to him? Play with him? Or could he just let him entertain himself and go back to his magazine?

CJ settled the question by pulling himself up by the netted sides of his playpen and offering plaintively, "Mama?"

Steve tried a semblance of an avuncular smile. "Mama's gone away for a little while, CJ," he said soothingly, "But she'll be back soon. Real soon." _I hope._

A tiny frown furrowed CJ's brow and his head swiveled on his little neck. "Mama?" he repeated more insistently.

"She's - just stepped out for a bit, CJ," Steve repeated patiently. "She'll be back before you know it." He didn't need his diaper changed, did he? What would he do if he needed his diaper changed?

CJ's chin wobbled ominously. "MAMA!"

This time it ended on a wail that had Steve automatically clapping his hands over his ears. The wail rose to a roar and Steve stared, paralyzed. What was he supposed to do now? "Don't cry, CJ…" he begged helplessly. "Your Mom's only gone for a minute - she'll be back before you know it."

Either CJ didn't understand, or he was not reassured. He tilted his head back and howled.

Steve ran a hand through his hair. _Oh, great_. Not five minutes as a baby-sitter and he had already broken the kid. "Come on, CJ, there's nothing to cry about…" To be honest, Uncle Steve felt a little like joining him. _He couldn't be hungry…please God, he wasn't wet…was he too old to walk the floor with…? _He'd pull him out of that playpen at least. Reminded him too much of incarceration for comfort anyway.

Wary, he approached the playpen, his hands held stiffly in front of him. "All right…" he soothed nervously. "Everything's going to be all right…" He slid his hands under the miniature arms and lifted cautiously.

CJ swung from his grip like a clapper in a bell. Steve propped him tentatively on his shoulder, wincing at the rush of volume in that ear, and bounced gently. CJ wrapped his hands in Steve's t-shirt and howled louder. Steve felt a telltale pool of wetness and sighed. _Oh, yeah. He was drooling all right._

Steve paced from one end of the patio to the other and back, with CJ howling inconsolably in his ear. He glanced nervously at the neighboring houses. Maybe they'd be better off inside. At least that would muffle the noise for the neighbors. Or maybe he could just aim CJ right at the Hewlett house. If what his father had said about last night was true, it would serve them right. Maybe CJ would even do him a favor and take a bite out of Mrs. Hewlett.

That's petty, he reprimanded himself sternly, trying not to dwell on the image with too much pleasure. Besides, CJ hasn't got enough teeth to make it worthwhile.

He gave CJ another hopeful, desperate bounce as he seemed to be losing steam for a moment. Nope, looked like he was just re-gathering his strength for a more strident yell…

He tried lowering him into his bouncy seat, but CJ kicked his feet and howled, though it hardly seem possible, more loudly still. Steve returned him to his increasingly damp shoulder, looking from the bag of toys to the bag of clothes, hoping for inspiration. His eyes alit on a tape poking out of the top of the toy bag.

_Television? Maybe he'd like to watch some television. That usually kept Jesse quiet. _He grabbed onto the tape like a drowning man grabbing for a rope.

"See, CJ?" He gestured anxiously to the photo of a smiling purple dinosaur that decorated the video box. "Wouldn't you like to watch the nice dinosaur?"

He hustled through the French doors and into the living room, starting up the TV/VCR combo and struggling to get the tape out of the sleeve without having to put down CJ, who was clinging tenaciously to his t-shirt and kicking his feet against his abdomen. The tape shot free and onto the carpet, and Steve maneuvered himself carefully downward, reaching for it, making useless soothing noises, fumbling blindly until his hand found the tape and curled around it. He pushed it into the VCR slot and watched the picture spring to life. The purple dinosaur clacked his big white teeth together and CJ stopped crying as abruptly as if someone had thrown an "off' switch. Steve let out a gasp of relief, his left ear ringing dully. _Thank God._

CJ sniffed. The children on the screen jumped up and down and began to sing. CJ watched, his face working, then he whimpered. Then _shrieked._ Then ROARED.

Steve let his head drop. _Oh, well. Couldn't really blame the kid. That was enough to make anybody scream._ He gave CJ another, futile bounce, switching arms to give him a chance at his other ear.

"All right, fella," he said wearily. "Here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna take a nice walk on the beach. Shouldn't be too crowded at this time of day, and if nothing else, the ocean should drown you out a little." He felt another drool shower on his shoulder, spreading down his back, and sighed. _How did something that small hold so much liquid? _

He hooked the diaper bag with his free arm on his way across the patio, praying that he wouldn't have occasion to need it, and started across the dunes with CJ gripping him like a pint-sized vice. The thunder of the surf as they approached had something inside Steve starting to uncoil and he let out a breath. _Well, this would make one of them feel better, anyway_.

He brought them right to the surf's edge and stood looking out, enjoying the vast, rolling expanse of water. He never tired of the sight of it, never ceased to wonder at its many faces and moods. He was so caught up in watching a handful of pelicans hovering low over the waves that it was a moment or two before he realized that CJ had stopped crying. He took a surreptitious peek at him. CJ was staring out at the ocean too, his fingers in his mouth and his face wet with tears.

"Like it?" Steve asked.

CJ pulled his fingers out of his mouth and pointed at the water. "Gah!" he observed.

Steve nodded wisely. "Yeah, I think so too. Wanna sit for a little while?"

CJ returned his fingers to his mouth and sucked thoughtfully.

Steve backed up and lowered them onto the sand, dropping the diaper bag next to them. CJ never took his eyes off of the water, sitting comfortably perched on Steve's thigh, but after a second he flapped his hands and pointed imperiously downward.

"Gah!" he demanded. "Down!"

Steve tilted his head at him, impressed. "Hey, that's pretty good." He lowered him onto a little hill of sand and CJ patted happily at it with his hands. Steve smiled, then winced as CJ stuffed a grainy handful into his mouth.

_Oh, well. It probably wouldn't kill him_. He tried no to think about what Amanda might have to say about it.

Sand clung to the tear tracks on CJ's face and Steve laughed at the comical effect.

CJ screwed up his face at him, then broke into a broad, two-toothed grin.

"Think we're going to have to hose you down after this, big guy. Let me see if Mom packed anything that we could use to make a sand castle."

He rummaged through the diaper bag until he found two sippy cups - one filled with juice and the other, spare one, empty. He scooped the spare full of sand and up-ended it, giving it a pat before removing it to show a neat tower of sand. "Whatdya think?"

CJ eyed it with interest, patted it lightly, then slammed it with his hand so that it collapsed into powder.

Steve grinned. "More the demolition type, huh? Try this one…"

Steve created a quick row of towers and CJ pounded them into dunes almost as quickly.

He was so focused on trying to get his structures up before CJ could destroy them that he didn't even notice the shadow hovering over them until a voice said, "He's adorable."

He glanced up quickly, looking up a long expanse of tanned leg to a wisp of lavender bikini to a toned abdomen, tried not to linger on the exposed swell of flesh above it, and came to a stop on a brilliant white smile.

"Is he yours?"

"Uh - no. A friend's. I'm just - babysitting."

"Oh." The smile grew broader. "Handsome and thoughtful, too."

Steve blinked, felt his ears redden. "Well, I don't know about that - "

"Gah!" CJ patted indignantly at his arm with one crusty hand, letting him know that he was falling behind in his part of the game.

"Sorry." Steve shook another tower free and CJ cheerfully battered it to nothingness.

Their visitor crouched next to him to watch. "What's his name?"

"Uh - CJ. For Colin Jesse."

"Nice." She watched CJ slam through a clutch of sand edifices like Godzilla taking on Tokyo. "And what about you? You must have a name."

"Steve." Steve filled the cup with sand and patted it down, then brushed self-consciously at a spot where sand had attached itself to a drool pool on his t-shirt. "I live along here. What about you? I don't think I've ever seen you around before."

The brilliant smile grew broader still. "My name is Sandy. I'm visiting with friends." She patted CJ on the head, but he didn't seem to notice. "He's so cute. Can I pick him up?"

"Uh - sure." Steve mentally flipped rapidly through Amanda's list of instructions and couldn't come up with one that conflicted. "I'm not sure how he is with strangers - "

Sandy didn't wait to hear him out. Making cooing noises, she reached over and hefted CJ onto her shoulder. CJ gave a squawk of protest at being pulled away from his important sand castle destruction work and squirmed impatiently.

Steve rumpled his brows. "Um, maybe you'd better not. When he gets nervous, sometimes he - "

His warning came a little late. Sandy gave a shriek, holding CJ away from her at an arm's length, then plunking him unceremoniously back in the sand. Steve watched the little pool of dampness grow in the sand around CJ with resignation.

Sandy leapt to her feet, blotting frantically at the pool of gooey dampness on her shoulder and the puddle of sticky wetness on her front as if she didn't know which to take care of first.

Steve was apologetic. "He's teething, and you made him a little nervous. Look, let me help you clean up - "

"Don't touch me!" Sandy was still brushing uselessly at the spots where CJ had anointed her. "Filthy little thing!"

"Hey!" Steve frowned. "He's just a kid, what do you want? You shouldn't have scared him." He put a protective hand on CJ's back.

Sandy was backing away, twisting this way and that. "Just - stay away from me!" She turned on her heel and raced into the ocean to wash off.

Steve stared after her, not totally oblivious to the fine rear view she presented. He dropped the sandy sippy cup in the diaper bag and lifted CJ onto his shoulder, rubbing between the tiny shoulder blades and not quite swallowing a heavy sigh. He made a face at the twin pools of wetness he felt spreading, one on his shoulder and one on his chest.

"Never mind, CJ," he said resignedly. "We didn't need her anyway, if she can't understand that sometimes a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do. Let's get you cleaned up."

He grimaced and picked the damp cotton away from his chest. "And I think Uncle Steve could use a fresh t-shirt."

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I know, Tracy - I must have been in a very literal state of mind!_

_**4. Fools Rush In**_

Steve was relieved to discover that, while CJ's diaper was drenched, that was the extent of the damage. Served him right, probably, for chickening out on checking it sooner. He looked from his own damp and drool encrusted t-shirt to CJ's wet and sandy coveralls, wondering what he should do. He definitely needed to rinse off, but did he dare leave CJ unattended while he showered? Sure, he could drop him in his playpen, but if he cried or got himself into trouble, would he even hear him over the pounding water? He had no clear idea of what kind of trouble he expected CJ to get himself into in a playpen, he only knew that every time he pictured Amanda's face - that really outraged, angry face she could produce upon occasion - he knew that he didn't want to take the chance.

He grimaced as he shook CJ free of his sodden shirt and peeled his own off as well. "Well, big guy," he told him philosophically, "I'm not sure your Mom would approve, but this is the best idea I've got." He started the water running, keeping the temperature mild in deference to CJ, and stepped out of his own jeans and into the teeming spray. The water sluiced over them and Steve held CJ against his shoulder and scrubbed with a soapy cloth. CJ giggled, burying a smile in Steve's neck.

Steve patted his back lightly, turning them the other way to let the water do its work on the other side. "That water doesn't bother you at all, does it?" he remarked admiringly. "Not even on your face! Maybe when you're a little bigger we can try you out on a surfboard. I've seen some kids not much bigger than you on boogie boards. That's a good place to start." He stood under the pounding jets and felt CJ's grip tighten around his neck. He smiled to himself. _That felt pretty nice. Maybe someday_…

He kept the shower short and sweet and stepped out carefully, keeping a firm grip on his passenger and reaching for a couple of towels. He dropped one towel on the bed and set CJ down on it to dry him off.

CJ seemed to like the towel even better than the shower and they entertained each other for some minutes with a game of towel peek-a-boo before Steve realized that CJ might be nice and warm, but he was starting to shiver and should probably think about toweling himself off as well and putting on some clothes. He dropped the towel in the playpen to absorb any potential accidents until he could get CJ diapered and dressed, and reached for a pair of clean jeans. He had just slid into them and was fastening the snap when his cell rang. He picked it up automatically and thumbed the button.

"Sloan."

"Steve?"

Steve inhaled resignedly at the familiar voice. "Cheryl."

"Listen, I know it's your day off - "

Steve nodded grimly. "But?"

"But we just collared Caldron and have enough to bring him in for questioning. I thought you'd want to be here."

Steve felt his heart pick up pace. "You know I do!"

"Well, that's why I'm calling. Sorry about your day off, but - "

"Never mind about that. I'll be right there. What - " He caught sight of CJ, deeply engrossed in contemplation of his bare toes, and stopped dead. _Whoops. _"Um…I just have - one - small thing I need to take care of, then I'll be right down."

"Well, don't dawdle. His lawyer's already making noises. We can't hold onto him forever."

"I know, I know…" Steve was grabbing a clean white t-shirt from the top of a pile in the laundry basket as he spoke. Not his most professional or intimidating garb, but speed mattered. "Read him his rights, just in case. I don't want to take any chances on technicalities. I'll be there as fast as I can." He rang off quickly and punched one of his programmed speed dial numbers and waited. After four rings it kicked over to voicemail, so he tried another button instead. This time a cheerful voice picked up.

"Community General."

Steve struggled to recognize the voice. "Rita?" he ventured at last. "It's Steve. Is my Dad there?"

"Oh, hi, Steve. Well, he's here, but he's in surgery, assisting. Is there something I can help you with?"

Steve swore quietly, but with fervor. Damn his father for being such a workaholic. Couldn't he ever just take a day off like normal…? It occurred to him to remember where he was trying to head on his own day off and he dropped that train of thought abruptly. _Oh, never mind, never mind - a solution was what mattered._ "Uh - no…I guess not."

"Can I at least give Dr. Sloan a message?"

Steve stared at CJ, happily busy with his toes. He sighed. "I guess not," he repeated at last. "Thanks anyway, Rita."

He depressed the connection and stood for a moment, staring at the cell phone, before walking the few steps to the playpen and staring down into it at CJ, naked and content.

"So, CJ," he began with forced cheer, yanking the t-shirt in his hand over his head and smiling brightly. "How would you like to see a real, live police station?"

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

_**5. Don't Count Your Chickens Before They've Hatched**_

Steve pulled into a parking spot in front of the Station House and turned off the engine, sitting for a minute to catch his breath. He had a whole new respect for Amanda and the fact that she managed to show up for work every day, never mind on time. In fact, he wasn't quite sure any more how it was that she managed to make it out of the house at all, ever.

Dressing CJ had turned out to be an astonishing challenge - poking those squirming little arms and legs through diminutive sleeves and pant legs and guiding that fuzzy head through the head hole. By the time he had him successfully diapered and dressed, he was himself disheveled and perspiring slightly. And that was before he had even tried to tackle the car seat. Who knew that fastening a car seat into a car and then securing a child in it could be so complicated? Sorting straps and buckles and arms and legs brought back vivid memories of trying to unravel the mysteries of the Rubik's cubes of his youth. And now he got to try and _un_fasten him. Making a face, he swung out of the truck, slinging the diaper bag over his shoulder and opening the rear door on the passenger side.

That diaper bag was another thing. Knowing Amanda, he had no doubt that it was both the chicest and most efficient diaper bag on the market, but did it have to be so - well - _girly_? Surely fathers had to lug these things around sometimes, too, huh? Would be nice if somebody took their potential humiliation into consideration.

Taking a deep breath, he unfastened the car seatbelt holding CJ in place and thumbed the button holding the myriad car seat straps together. To his amazement, they sprang apart like magic and CJ lowered the sippy cup he was sucking on and held up his arms to be lifted.

"That's a good boy," Steve chanted, pulling him carefully free of the contraption and trying to maneuver him out of the car without bumping him on anything. He managed to lift CJ free, but cracked his own head sharply on the doorframe and swallowed a word he was sure Amanda would not appreciate being added to CJ's vocabulary just barely in time. He rubbed ruefully at his scalp with his free hand, settling CJ on his shoulder and pushing the door closed with his hip. _Ouch. _Maybe this was easier if you were a little shorter.

He shouldered his way into the Station House, acutely aware of the diaper bag bumping against his side all the way. He was relieved to see Cheryl chatting with the desk sergeant as he entered.

She lifted her brows at the sight of him, her expression unreadable. "Um…" for a moment, she seemed to be at a loss. "Babysitting?"

"No. Kidnapping." Steve rolled his eyes as he sat CJ on the tall dais in front of the desk sergeant. "Of course, babysitting. Marge, I know it's a lot to ask, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor…"

"Somehow, this isn't what I expected you to be doing on your day off," Cheryl persisted, her eyes fixed on him as if memorizing the sight.

"Well, it's not what I expected me to be doing either. Marge, I need to be in on the Caldron interview - "

"Amanda's Mom was busy?" Cheryl couldn't seem to let it go.

"Amanda's Mom, my Dad - everybody on the west coast, apparently, except, it seems, for me. Marge - "

"Isn't he _darling_."

Steve paused. CJ seemed to have done his work for him, for Marge, that rough and tumble sergeant whose steely glance made the most hardened of patrolmen tremble in their regulation shoes, was positively simpering as CJ smiled to display the full glory of his two teeth.

Steve grinned. "He really is pretty cute, isn't he? Um - do you think you could - ?"

"Do you want to stay with Marge for a little while, sweetie? While Uncle Lieutenant takes care of business?"

CJ seemed to take to Marge in a way he hadn't to Sandy, so Steve watched him hopefully. "What do you think, CJ? Will you stay with the nice Sergeant while Uncle Steve questions the bad guy?" CJ looked at Marge and bounced a little, then dropped his lashes coquettishly.

Steve shook his head. _What a flirt. Hope Amanda knows what she's got to look forward to. _"Good boy. I'll be back as soon as I can. Be good for Marge. Marge - I can't thank you enough…I'll - "

But Marge was busy letting CJ try on her uniform hat and didn't respond. Steve's grin broadened as he watched the hat slip down over CJ's nose. He did look cute. Too bad he couldn't get a picture of it for Amanda.

On the other hand, he mused, as Cheryl led the way to the Interview Room, it might be better for all concerned if Amanda knew as little about this tiny adventure as possible.

"So, tell me what you've got. You had him Mirandized?"

Cheryl nodded. "His lawyer squawked, but I explained that it was just procedure, didn't mean a thing."

"Liar."

Cheryl grinned. "Yeah, but I do it so well. He's only here on a couple of outstanding speeding tickets so we can't hold him long. We need to make the time count." She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "Um - Steve…"

Steve raised his brows questioningly.

Cheryl cleared her throat. "It's not that I don't like the bag, but - er - do you really think it goes with your shoes?"

Steve stared blankly at her, then looked down and caught sight of the brightly colored diaper bag dangling from his shoulder. He closed his eyes for a minute. "Let me - um - just - " He gestured toward the Sergeant's dais.

Cheryl nodded wisely. "I'll wait."

Steve nodded back without opening his eyes, blew out a gusty sigh. "I'll only be a second." He started toward the sergeant's desk, casually pulling the enormous bag free and struggling to find an unobtrusive way to carry it. "You have an idea how we should play this?" he tossed over his shoulder.

Cheryl watched him and tucked her lips together to hide a smile. "Um - we could trot out that old chestnut 'good cop, bad cop' - he'd never be expecting that. And since you're the one with the lovely handbag, you can be good cop."

Steve had finally settled on hefting the bag under his arm like a football, but he glanced over his shoulder at that. "Cute. Why don't you go in and make him uncomfortable. I'll be right along."

"All right. And - Steve?"

Steve gave her another, suspicious, look.

Cheryl smiled sweetly. "When the season changes? You're going to want to trade that in for something nice in leather."

Steve's smile grew taut. "You'd better hurry. In fact, I'd run if I was you."

0000

By the time Steve entered Interview Room Three he felt as though a serrated knife was sawing relentlessly at his last nerve. He had expected the catcalls that had greeted his return to the sergeant's dais - they were tediously predictable - and he had managed to set his jaw grimly and ignore them while the officer assisting on the Sissel case, where Caldron was suspected to be a major witness, updated him on the case status and the details of the arrest. He nodded his stiff thanks to the officer and gestured for her to stand by, before pausing with his hand on the interview room door. He allowed himself a second for a deep breath, then pushed the door inward.

He could tell Caldron's lawyer had been speaking before he entered, for his mouth was still open and his hand lifted in mid-gesture, but there was a sudden silence as the door fell closed behind him. He glanced from one to the other, a little puzzled by the cessation of conversation, and noted that they were all staring at him. He frowned uneasily. What was the problem? Was he covered with baby drool? Had CJ peed on him? He resisted the urge to smooth his hair or check his t-shirt and instead tried his hand at another smile. "Mr. Caldron. I hope you've been made comfortable." Everyone seemed to relax a little.

Caldron's lawyer cleared his throat. "I was just pointing out that this is an outrage! You have no reason to detain my client! Why, an upstanding citizen like Mr. Caldron - "

Steve made a scoffing sound in his throat. "_Upstanding_. Mr. Clemens, your client has a rap sheet as long as my arm and evidently a shocking disregard for making good on his traffic refractions, so let's skip the virtuous protests, shall we? We police officers are very sensitive about follow-through on ticket payment - that's the kind of thing that pays our salaries." The lawyer opened his mouth to interrupt, but Steve held up one hand. "I'm sure Detective Banks explained that this is just a friendly conversation, right? We think your client has information about an incident that we're very interested in and as an - er - _upstanding citizen_, we know he'd want to take this opportunity to unburden himself to us. Right?" Steve bared his teeth in a smile.

"My client doesn't know anything!"

Steve circled around until he was standing right behind Caldron. "I'd like to hear that from him."

Caldron shifted his shoulders nervously. "I don't know nothin'," he mumbled. "How many times I gotta tell you?"

Steve completed his circle to perch on the edge of the long table that filled most of the room and shrugged. "I don't know. Until you convince me?"

"This is harassment!"

Steve lifted his brows. "No, no, it's not - not as long as we have him here for a legitimate reason. We have every right to detain your client, just not to hold him. _Yet_, that is."

The lawyer bristled. "Is that a threat?"

Steve's mouth quirked at the corners. "I guarantee you, if I decide to threaten him, you won't have to ask."

"He's still insisting that he wasn't anywhere near Sissel or the complex on the eighth."

Steve hid a smile at Cheryl's bored, languid tone. _Nobody could do ennui quite like Cheryl. She should have been an actress. _Any number of suspects had been needled into confessing over the years, irritated at her apparent indifference. Unfortunately, Caldron did not seem to be one of them.

"I weren't there," he grumbled sullenly.

Steve sighed. "That's funny, because your parking ticket says you were. I told you, you should really learn to pay those on time."

"Yeah, well, maybe I should find some cop to fix'em for me," Caldron sneered.

His lawyer elbowed him in the ribs, hard. "My client says that he had loaned his car that day."

Steve crossed his arms. "Really." He tilted his head. "To who?"

Caldron opened his mouth, but his lawyer jumped in. "To one Lenny Markman."

Steve pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. "You know, that's funny - because we had a little chat with Lenny, and he says you didn't. In fact, he says a lot of interesting things, including that he was nowhere _near_ the complex on the eighth."

"Why, that dirty liar - " Caldron lunged across the table, but his lawyer grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

The lawyer glared sternly at Caldron, then paused to mop his brow with his handkerchief. He grimaced apologetically. "My client is understandably upset at having his honesty impugned…" he began.

Steve ignored him. "Now, there's a coincidence - " he continued sweetly, his eyes on Caldron. "…he says that _you're_ the liar. How do you suppose we could figure out who the real liar is?"

Caldron shot to life again. "I could try beatin' the truth outta Markman, that worthless slime! By the time I'm done with him, he'll be swimming the Pacific - permanent!"

Steve sat back. "Now _that_," he observed agreeably to the room at large, "was a threat. So what exactly is the story with Lenny Markman, Mr. Caldron? He says you were there when Sissel offed Camarera. Makes you an accessory to a capital crime."

"I said he's a liar! And when I get my hands - "

"MY CLIENT - " The lawyer's voice just barely shouted Caldron down. Caldron glared at him, but stuck out his lower lip and subsided. "Has nothing more to say. Charge him, or cut him loose."

Steve and Cheryl exchanged a quick, unhappy glance. Steve stood up and took a turn about the room. "I do have enough to charge him, given the dated ticket and the eye witness report."

"Yeah? Ask Markman how he knew I was there if he wasn't, huh? Ask him that!"

Steve's brows jumped. "Are you now saying that you _were_ there?"

"I'm sayin' that when I get my hands around Markman's scrawny neck - "

Lawyer Clemens stood up to block his client from view, ignoring his outburst. "He's not saying anything. And I'll have him out on bail before you can finish processing him."

"Which is why I wanted to keep this friendly." Steve leaned his shoulders into the wall. "Maybe we can work it all out between us."

"Everything is circumstantial - you've got nothing."

Steve opened his mouth to answer, grasping for inspiration.

"Lt. Sloan?"

He turned in surprise, saw Officer Petty poking her head in the door.

"I need to see you for a minute?"

The glance Steve threw Cheryl this time was more hopeful. He smiled at Lawyer Clemens. "Hold that thought. I'll be right back. Detective Banks will entertain you by listing the potential charges while I'm gone."

He slipped out the door and blew out his breath in a rush, moving to follow Officer Petty as she walked away from the door. "Whatever you've got Petty, I hope it's good - otherwise I'm going to have to cut him loose and hope I'm just giving him the chance to get himself into deeper trouble. What did you find?"

Officer Petty gave him a peculiar look, gesturing to a nearby door. "Um - behind the two-way?"

Steve raised his brows. The two-way? Newman often watched from the two-way, but he wasn't in today. There was no reason for the shrink to be observing and it was a little early in the game for the prosecutor to be watching…he pushed open the door and peeked inside, almost jumped back at the sudden rush of sound. Hastily, he slid inside and pulled the door to the soundproof space closed behind him.

CJ took one look and immediately roared louder, stretching out his hands to him. Steve raised his arms automatically and CJ hopped into them, wrapping his arms and legs tightly around his torso.

Steve patted his back without thinking, staring from the bundle in his arms to Marge in bewilderment. "What on earth happened?"

Marge looked apologetic. "Nothing happened - we were doing fine, until he realized that nobody he knew was in sight. I think he's teething and it just makes him fussy. Wants a familiar face. I'm sorry, Lieutenant - I thought if he could see you through the mirror he'd settle down, but it just didn't work. Guess it's you or nothing."

Steve sighed a sigh from his very toes. He tried to coax CJ's face out of the depths of his shoulder so he could look him in the eye. "Hey, CJ - c'mon, tough guy - I'll only be another minute. You can wait another minute, can't you?" CJ tightened his grip and Steve tried to gently loosen it. "Hey, look, CJ - if you can wait just a little longer while Uncle Steve nails the bad guy, we'll go for ice cream. You like ice cream, don't you? Um, CJ, loosen up just a little, buddy - Uncle Steve needs to breathe…"

CJ obediently loosened his grip and lifted his face so that Steve had a good look at the trembling lower lip and tear-brimmed eyes. He gave a hiccupping sob and Steve winced, staring for a moment before settling him back into the crook of his neck reassuringly.

Marge gave him a knowing look and he smiled wanly.

"Well, I guess there's only one thing to do…"

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks - you guys are such good sports!_

_**6. Out of the Mouths of Babes**_

Cheryl tapped her pen against her pad, one ear cocked for the sound of the door opening behind her. Whatever Steve had been called away for, she hoped it was related to this case and she hoped it was good, or in a little while they would be kissing Caldron and their best lead good-bye. Oh, technically with the evidence of the ticket they could hold Caldron up to seventy-two hours, but his lawyer would no doubt find a way to spring him long before the time was up and besides, if it came to that, he would probably do them more good on the outside, stirring up trouble and maybe cornering Lenny Markman.

She had read back the charges, point by point, detailed the flaws in Caldron's statement, and was wondering what was left to do to buy some time except for break into song, when she heard the door at her back open. She hoped she didn't look relieved. Her smile faltered as she caught site of Caldron's and Clemens' faces. She raised her brows.

When Steve had entered the first time, his expression had been so set and focused and - well - almost murderous - that it had given all of them pause. Since she knew him so well and privately thought of him as a big teddy bear, she sometimes forgot how tough and intimidating he could look to the uninitiated. If the looks on Caldron's and Clemens' faces were anything to go by, Steve's face this time must put the earlier one to shame. She turned around. And just stopped herself from doing a very unprofessional double-take. She swallowed - hard - arranging her face in carefully neutral lines.

Steve's eyes looked straight ahead, his expression stern and rigid - all business. It was difficult to reconcile the look on his face with the small body contentedly snuggled into his shoulder.

Cheryl opened her mouth, closed it again hastily, not sure what to say. Clearly levity would not be appreciated at this particular juncture.

It was Steve who broke the pregnant silence. "So," he offered them a tight-lipped smile. "Where were we?"

Cheryl cleared her throat.

Sloan was a pretty good guy to partner with: decent sense of humor about himself, not too hung up on the macho thing, not one for throwing his rank around. In fact, about the only time she even remembered that he ranked her was when they were in trouble and he was first in line to take the heat. Still…she cast him a compassionate glance. It didn't hurt to occasionally let him know that she knew who was who and what was what. She cleared her throat again.

"We were just asking Mr. Caldron for the details of his association with Mr. Markman. Sir."

She saw a glimmer of surprise in Steve's eyes, quickly veiled. The brief glance he sent her told her that the small courtesy had been noticed and the support appreciated. Since she had her back to Caldron and Clemens, Cheryl risked a quick wink.

"You can't have a kid in here!"

Cheryl twisted back around in her chair to watch.

Steve met Caldron's eyes mildly. "Detective Banks," he rapped out coolly, "Can you think of any statute or code that this specifically violates?"

Cheryl's eyes twinkled now. She was beginning to enjoy herself. "No, sir."

Steve nodded. "Mr. Clemens. Can you think of any specific statute or code that the detective or myself may have overlooked?"

"Of course not!" Clemens nearly stuttered in his indignation. "There aren't any because everyone _knows_ that that you can't have a child in here!"

Steve seemed to consider this. "Of course, everybody also knows that you can't withhold evidence in a criminal investigation, particularly a capital crime, but that doesn't seem to trouble your client unduly. And, come to think of it, there actually _is_ a statute against that."

Caldron pushed back in his chair, fidgeting. "I don't like kids," he complained to no one in particular.

Clemens was on his feet. "This is out of line! My client should not have to be exposed to - to - " he gestured wildly at the air, as if reaching for the proper word.

"To…?" Steve prompted politely, after an extended pause.

"To - an - a - a - child!" Clemens finished feebly. "He shouldn't have to - to face - to…" he trailed off, at a loss.

CJ sucked on his fist and eyed him with interest.

"I just don't like 'em, you know?" Caldron continued as if no one had spoken. "Always starin' at ya. And they smell funny."

Cheryl almost choked on a laugh at the look that crossed Steve's face. For a second she fully expected him to retort that Caldron didn't smell so great himself. Instead, his expression tightened a touch further and he said, "Mr. Caldron, I thought you were in a hurry."

Caldron squirmed on the hard interview seat, his transfixed gaze on CJ. "I am. I mean, especially now. See - see how's he's starin'? Why do they do that? Always makes you wonder what they're thinkin'."

Steve flattened one hand over CJ's back, his glare deepening. Accentuated by the frown, Cheryl noticed for the first time the smudge of bruising underlining his left eye, let her glance slide to take in the rounded blue bump growing at his right temple, the large gauze patch high on one bicep and the smaller patch of gauze folded on the other. She blinked. She really needed to ask Sloan what the heck he had been doing on his day off.

"Then can we continue?" Steve's voice brought her back to herself and she shifted guiltily. She was letting herself get as distracted as Caldron.

Clemens almost stuttered , looking for an argument that would hold water without making him look like a fool.

Caldron had no such qualms. "Yeah. Just - let's make it quick, huh?"

"Wonderful." Steve took a turn about the room. Cheryl shook her head in admiration. Really, you almost wouldn't know he had a baby draped over his shoulder. She winced a little as she watched a wide drool pool spread over the back of Steve's t-shirt, but he didn't so much as flinch. "So, let's get back to Mr. Markham and your conflicting stories, shall we?"

Caldron dragged his eyes away from CJ. "He's a snake. It's crazy to believe that snake and not me. He'd sell out his own mother."

Steve perched on the table edge again. "Hm. Those were almost his exact words about you."

"I told you he's a liar."

CJ squeaked and Steve got up to pace behind Caldron, absently patting CJ's back. "Mr. Caldron, I have two different people telling me that they weren't at the scene of the crime, but each claiming the other was - how they would know that the other was there, then, remains a mystery. In fact, the only tie breaker I have in these two stories is the parking ticket.

Now, it's your car and the ticket is made out to you, so without any evidence to the contrary except for your word, it seems to point to you as the one actually present and participating. Unless you have something you can tell me that would prove otherwise?"

Clemens sat up straight. "My client has given his word - "

The look Steve gave him would have withered every tree in the Angeles State Forest. "Don't waste my time, Mr. Clemens."

Cheryl looked down to hide a grin as Clemens quickly subsided. CJ seemed to be the only one who wasn't fooled by Sloan's tough guy act.

Steve stopped his pacing right behind Caldron. "Give me something, Caldron, or I'm going to have to hold you under suspicion."

Cheryl glanced at him. She knew that wasn't what they were going for.

Caldron twisted to keep his eyes on CJ, who was gnawing contentedly on his knuckles. "Look, I don't know what you want from me - I'm just an honest businessman who leant his car to the wrong guy. Markman is the one you should be shaking down."

"Don't worry - Markman will get his share. I'll send you both up if I have to. Just remember that it doesn't have to be this way."

Caldron slumped against the seat back. "I don't know what you want me to say. I loaned my car to Markman. Ain't my business what he decided to do with it. Geez, where did you get these chairs - a monastery? They're like torture - HEY!" Caldron leapt to his feet, pawing frantically at his collar. "What the - get it off me!"

Cheryl grabbed for a box of Kleenex and hurried to Caldron, keeping her head bent. Her one glimpse of Steve's face as he looked from the hopping Caldron to CJ, who had removed his fist from his mouth and released a veritable waterfall of drool right down Caldron's collar, had almost been too much for her. For the first time Steve looked as though he had absolutely no idea what to do.

Cheryl blotted at Caldron' collar with the Kleenex, though it was difficult to be effective with him ducking and weaving. "If you'd stand still and let me help - " her voice quavered suspiciously and she broke off before she could be caught laughing outright.

Clemens had jumped to his feet as well, looking as at a loss as Steve. "My client - " he began feebly, then stopped, shaking his head, nonplussed.

"Get me outta this madhouse!" Caldron twitched and twirled as though he'd been baptized with battery acid. "You got my statement! If you think Markman took it into his head to help Sissel skewer and pop Camerera, you take it up with him - I'm outta here!"

Cheryl stopped her blotting. She slid a quick glance at Steve.

Steve's brows lifted fractionally in response. "I'm sorry, Mr. Caldron," he said politely. "But I don't think I quite caught that. Could you repeat it for me?"

Caldron pulled off his jacket and shook it out, glaring at it. "I said I'm outta here! This is a three hunnerd dollar suit!"

Steve gave him a smile that was fighting hard not to turn into a grin. "Don't worry. I'm pretty sure we can find something for you to wear. Say, something nice in orange."

Caldron stared at him, suddenly wary, sensing that something had changed, but not sure exactly what. Clemens shifted on his feet, poised to leap to his client's defense, once he understood what was needed.

"You can't hold me more than a coupla days," he mumbled at last, trying to edge away from CJ's baleful stare.

"Actually, I can." Steve opened the interview room door and stuck his head out. "Officer Petty?" He bounced CJ lightly, smiling with maddening calm at Caldron. "Maybe you'd like to explain to me how you know that Camerera was stabbed before he was shot?"

Caldron squinted at him.

Clemens closed his eyes as if in pain.

"I didn't - " Caldron began uncertainly.

Steve cut him off. "Detective Banks. Did you hear Mr. Caldron describe Camerera's murder as '_skewered_ and _popped'_?"

Cheryl opened her mouth to answer, but Caldron broke in. "Okay, okay - maybe I did. I musta read somethin' about it in the paper."

"Wasn't in the paper. It was one of the things we held back. The only ones who would have known about it are the officers working the case, the murderer, and any witnesses. Which one are you, Mr. Caldron?"

Caldron grabbed some tissues from Cheryl and scrubbed at his neck, his face scrunched with distaste. "You musta said somethin' about it, then."

Steve shook his head. "No. Of course, this interview is being taped for your protection. We could easily play it back and see for sure."

Caldron narrowed his gaze further, his mind visibly racing overtime to come up with an explanation. He glanced at Clemens. Clemens shrugged helplessly.

Officer Petty stepped through the door and looked questioningly at Steve.

Steve smiled at her. "Mr. Caldron is going to be our guest for a while. Book him, please?"

Officer Petty reached to her belt for her cuffs; Caldron backed away. "All right, all right - I wanna cut a deal!"

"That's between you and your lawyer and the DA." Steve gave Officer Petty a slight nod and she moved forward, reaching for Caldron's wrist. Caldron tried to jerk away, but Petty gave his arm a deft twist, slamming him stomach first and legs spread against the interview room table before he could even protest. "Orlando Caldron," she began, "You are under arrest for the murder or conspiracy to murder Eugene Camerera - "

Cheryl watched appreciatively. "Nice move," she offered. Petty couldn't weigh in at more than 110 pounds dripping wet, and yet she wasn't even out of breath. Petty tossed her a bright smile at the compliment and continued her recitation. "Would you like your rights repeated, for the record, sir?"

"He knows his rights." Clemens seemed to come alive at last. "Don't say anything else, for God's sake - "

Petty shrugged indifferently, yanking him from his sprawled position against the table and pointing him toward the door. Cheryl shook her head. It was always nice to watch someone who enjoyed their work.

"Take it easy, will ya?" Caldron shuffled toward the door. "Isn't this police brutality? And I want my suit cleaned on the city's tab! Sheesh, I told you I hated kids!"

Steve and Cheryl watched Petty hustle Caldron out, dutifully shadowed by the faithful Clemens.

Cheryl turned an amused look on Steve. "Well," she said at last. "That shook something loose."

"Yeah." Steve gazed after them wonderingly. "Nice work, CJ. Give me five." Steve tapped his fingers lightly against CJ's tiny palm. CJ returned a gummy grin.

Cheryl smiled. It was a nice moment, and she didn't have the heart to ruin it by pointing out that having that interview session on tape had its drawbacks as well. He'd find that out soon enough.

At the very least, she was pretty sure it would be making an appearance at the department Christmas Party.

_TBC_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: bjp, I can't believe you think there is more chaos in store for Steve! (I guess you must have read me before!)_

_**7. A Friend Indeed**_

Steve pulled the truck into the driveway and turned off the engine, glancing in the rearview mirror. CJ had been quiet for the last mile and the reflection in the mirror showed him fast asleep, his head bobbing on his chest. Steve slipped quietly out of the truck, delicately closing the door behind him and opening the rear passenger door.

He had decided that CJ's interrogation work deserved a reward, and so now CJ still held the melted remains of a chocolate ice cream cone against his top, his face anointed from nose to chin with more of the chocolate goo.

Steve shook his head as he released the seatbelt and carefully lifted him out, managing to avoid hitting his head this time as he propped CJ against his shoulder, prying the sticky remains of the cone out of the tiny grip with his other hand. _Yuck. _

He hadn't been sure enough of the state of his own stomach to try one himself and now he was glad. He shot it deftly into the nearest garbage can, wiping his hand on his jeans and then pulling the car seat free before pushing the door closed. CJ never even stirred.

He glanced around. No sign of Dad, no sign of Amanda. Seemed like somebody should be here by now. He walked around the beach house to his patio, shooting a quick look at his watch as he did so. "Well, no wonder you're out - it's your nap time. I wonder where Mommy is - she expected to be back before now."

He paused by the playpen, intending to settle CJ into it, squirmed a little. It still looked too much like waiting-in-the-lockup-for-bail to him, so after a minute he lowered himself into a beach chair instead, with CJ stretched out on his chest. CJ didn't even budge, so Steve made himself comfortable. _Well, this should work all right. And Amanda should be back any time now._

Carefully, he reached for his magazine, lying abandoned on the patio by his chair, and, propping it up behind CJ's little head, settled in to read.

0000

_Steve. _

He was dreaming: a pleasant dream, evidently, if the soft, feminine voice in his ear was any indication.

"_Steve_."

It grew more emphatic and he stirred a little, trying to shift a weight on his chest. _This was more like it._ Now something was tugging at the weight on his chest and he clutched at it instinctively.

"Steve, it's just me - I've come to pick up CJ."

He pried his eyes half apart. Amanda's face filled his horizon, softened by a half-tender, half-amused expression he couldn't quite remember seeing before. Suddenly, it all came back to him.

"Oh - " he let go of his grip on CJ and tried to sit up as Amanda lifted the weight away. "Oh. Hi. You're back."

"I'm sorry I was so long." Amanda perched on the end of the lawn chair as CJ, without waking, cuddled into her neck. "Where's Mark?"

"Hm?" Steve stopped rubbing his eyes to glance around. "He's not back yet? Must still be at the hospital."

"You've been alone all this time? Oh, Steve - " Amanda looked contrite. "If I had known you were alone I never would have - but Ron managed to get his flight changed and we thought - " she broke off abruptly, the color rising in her cheeks.

A look at her face and Steve figured he had a pretty good idea what they'd been doing. He sighed inwardly, his mind slipping with brief regret to Sandy and her lavender bikini. _Oh, well. At least somebody was getting a little action. Even if it was Wagner. _"So," he gave her a shrewd smile. "Everything worked our with Ron?"

Amanda nodded, her color deepening. "Oh, yes. I can't thank you enough, Steve. It was all a silly misunderstanding. But I'm so sorry you were left alone for so long - was he much trouble?" The look she gave the little dark head in the crook of her neck suggested that she couldn't imagine anyone finding him anything of the kind.

"Naw, he was good." Steve banished the last of the sleep from his eyes and covered a yawn. "We went for ice cream."

"Yes, so I see." Amanda tapped a wide chocolate and drool spot on the right shoulder of his t-shirt with one slender finger. "Why don't you let me take that with me to launder?"

Steve made a face at the spot, brushing uselessly at it. "No, it's okay. I have quite a stack of laundry growing. Might as well just put it in with the rest."

"Well, if you're sure…" Amanda rose, dropping a quick kiss on top of his head. "I can't thank you enough, Steve…"

Steve moved to get up. "I'll help you pack up the car - "

"No, it's all right." Amanda patted his shoulder to keep him seated. "I already took care of it while you boys had your nap. I've learned to really take advantage of his downtimes. You just take it easy. Enjoy your day. I'll see you soon."

"Yeah." Steve lifted a hand in farewell, surprised by a twinge of disappointment that CJ was too deeply asleep to say good-bye. He leaned back into his lawn chair, yawning again, picked up his magazine from where it had fallen when he'd dropped off and smoothed the crumpled pages. His stomach gave an unexpected growl and he smiled. _Well, whattya know_. Looked like he was back in business. He should call Dad and see if they were still on for dinner.

He picked up his cell phone from the little table next to his chair and hit one of the speed dial buttons. This time his father picked up almost immediately. "Hey, Dad."

"Steve!" Mark sounded pleased, if harried. "How's your day off?"

Steve massaged the lump at his hairline. "Well, it's…different. How about you? We still on for dinner?" But he knew that distracted tone well and was pretty sure of what it boded, even as he asked.

"Oh, let's see - what time is it now?" He waited patiently, picturing his father checking his watch and the inevitable start of surprise when he saw the time. "Oh, my - is it really that late…?" Steve mouthed the words along with him. "I don't know, Steve - we're pretty busy here. If you can hold off until eight or so…?"

Steve shook his head, even though he knew his father couldn't see it. Experience had taught him that "eight or so" meant closer to nine, at best. "Dad, I never finished breakfast and I lost my lunch. I'll starve if I have to hold off until eight."

"Good point. How is the stomach, by the way?"

"Better. Empty."

Mark chuckled. "You go ahead, then. Can I have a rain check?"

"For a free meal? You know it."

"All right, son. I'll be home as soon as I can. Maybe we can still get that walk in."

"Okay, Dad - don't work too hard."

"I won't. Oh - and Steve - " Steve waited. "Take it a little easy on the takeout food, all right? Your stomach probably isn't quite ready for a lot of things. Stick to - "

"I'll be fine, Dad - " Steve broke in firmly. "Talk to you later."

He hit the button to break the connection and got up to check out his collection of take out menus. He had only gone a few steps when the cell phone trilled, and he grabbed it again and continued walking. "Change your mind?" he asked into the small mouthpiece.

"About calling you? That depends. How's the day off going?"

Steve grinned, abashed. "Oh, hi, Jess. Sorry, I thought you were Dad. What's up?"

"Nothing's up. Just thought I'd call to see how you were doing with twenty-four whole hours to yourself. Sick of the life of leisure yet? Dying for something to do?"

Steve paused at the French doors that led into his living room. "Well, it hasn't turned out exactly as I planned…" Something in Jesse's tone registered with him and he added, more cautiously, "Why?"

"Oh, just wondering." The joviality in Jesse's voice sounded suspiciously forced. "Just thought you might be bored by now and looking for something to fill the long, empty hours."

Steve's voice gathered a suspicious edge. "…Like…?"

"Oh, you know," Jesse was breezy. "Like…nothing special. Just maybe…oh, you know…something like…covering my shift at _Bob's_…"

"Jesse, no!" Steve's protest sprangfrom him unbidden. "Jess, I've been at _Bob's_ every single night that I haven't been on call or on stake-out lately. I don't even want to see the place, _or_ the station. I want to be Steve Sloan, off-duty-of-all-kinds slob. I want to eat a meal that isn't ribs. I want to eat a meal sitting _down_."

"Yeah, yeah, okay, I know."

"And in my home - if I can remember what it looks like!"

"Yeah, I get it - "

"I just want a chance to get the barbecue sauce smell out of my pores, Jess. I smell like a walking advertisement. It's probably the main reason I don't have a social life. Not that I have time for one…"

"Okay, buddy, I hear you - I understand. Hey, who's the guy who peeled you off the wall last night when you fell asleep standing up? I know you need a break. You have a good evening. Get in some downtime. I'll talk to you later."

"Look, I'm sorry, Jess. Another time?"

"Sure thing."

Steve knew that he should stop right there and break the connection, but there was something in Jesse's voice that made him say, almost against his will, "So, what's the big emergency? Hot date?"

Had he really asked that? He hadn't meant to ask that.

"Oh, you know - " Jesse sounded offhand. "My Dad breezed into town and wondered if I was free for dinner - you know how he is. I thought maybe - but, hey, it will teach him to call ahead occasionally, huh? You take it easy. Get some rest."

Steve felt his stomach drop with a clang. _His dad…? _"Oh." There was a pause. "He's just in town for the one night…?"

"Yeah - " Jesse gave another ungenuine sounding laugh. "You know how he is. Has to squeeze fatherhood in between spy engagements - time is at a premium. But, hey - don't worry about it - there'll be other dinners. You take a break. You've earned it."

Steve closed his eyes. He knew and Jesse knew that there was absolutely no way to predict when Dane Travis would fly through town again. _And you see YOUR Dad every day. Every DAY_, a little voice in his head rebuked him.

Steve took a deep breath. "You know, it's a funny coincidence, but my dad canceled a dinner date with me. Maybe you should go, Jess. I could do _Bob's_."

"No - Steve - I shouldn't have asked. It's just - but don't worry about it. You relax."

"No," Steve felt a little more conviction as he spoke. "It's fine, Jess - you go ahead. It'll work out fine - save me having to cook dinner."

Jesse sounded skeptical. "You were going to cook?"

"Okay, thaw - order in - what difference does it make? It will save me from doing it."

Some of the animation returned to Jesse's voice. "Look, Steve - are you sure about this…?"

Sure?Maybe not quite, but the longer he spoke, the more he felt it was the right thing to do. "It'll be fine."

"Well, it is Wednesday. " Jesse was bouncing back. "Should be a really small crowd. Just a few regulars. Almost dead."

"Perfect place for a homicide cop then," Steve joked. "You go ahead. Give my best to Dane."

"Thanks, buddy. Say, if I can ever return the favor - "

"Believe me. You will. Talk to you later, Jess."

Steve stood looking at the phone after he hung up, wondering what the heck he had just done to himself. He really needed to stop answering that phone, that was the problem. Then he shrugged it off.

Well, at least he didn't have to make any decisions about dinner. And Jesse was right - Wednesday nights were slow. He'd bring along his magazine. Maybe he'd even get a chance to finish his article. He glanced at the time. He'd better get moving.

But first he had to find a clean t-shirt.

_TBC_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Ninjahurt, I'd say that is as inevitable as death and taxes. Since you all know what's coming, here we go. Sorry this took me longer than usual - it's all written, sometimes it just takes me a little longer to prep and clean up and post._

_**8. No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk**_

"Steve!" There was unmistakable relief in the tone, but Steve was busy staring past the waitress to the congested dining room that he hardly recognized as his restaurant. "I'm so glad to see you!" For a minute, he was sure she was going to throw her arms around him. "Is Jesse with you? We could really use him, too."

"No, I'm here in Jesse's place…" Steve finally managed to shake off a little of his shock at the sight of patrons draped and propped and perched on every available surface. "What's this, Cristina? What's going on?"

The waitress followed his eyes to the packed interior. "They're members of a bus trip. Seems their bus has a flat tire and the driver sent them here for dinner while it's getting fixed. Of course, that means they've displaced some of the Wednesday night crowd, who're a little cranky about it. It's kinda volatile out there. You sure Jesse can't make it? We could really use the extra pair of hands."

Steve shook his head, still gazing in shock at the wall-to-wall throng. As an owner, it should be swelling his heart with gladness, but somehow his heart insisted on staying cold with dread.

"Well, I'm glad you're here anyway," Cristina continued brightly. "Do you want to wait tables, or bus?"

Steve glanced down at the rolled magazine in his hand, stopping the breath that wanted to turn into a sigh just in time. So much for his quiet night and magazine and dinner sitting down. In fact, so much for dinner, period, from the look of things.

"I'll bus," he said at last, stuffing his magazine in his back pocket and heading to the kitchen for a dishpan and apron.

0000

_What kind of lunatic_, Steve wondered as he scraped gnawed bones and sticky pools of barbecue sauce into a dishpan and stacked plates, _what kind of an insane imbecile_…he dumped ice next to the bones and telescoped the plastic tumblers together…_I mean, what kind of absolute, off-his-nut, brainless, witless loser, spends his days - oh, and nights - let's not forget the nights _- he pulled his damp rag out of his apron pocket and gave the Formica surface a quick scrub - _chasing down lowlifes, wrestling thugs into submission, kneeling in blood, digging under corpses, crawling through alleys, arguing with prosecutors, and then decides it would be fun - FUN, mind you, to spend whatever pitiful scraps of time are left balancing books and scouring toilets and clearing tables?_ He propped the dishpan on his hip and moved to the next table. _Well, if I had a mirror handy, my friend, I would show you what kind. It's not a pretty sight. _He scraped the next table's plates over his dishpan and then collected them in a stack.

"We've been waiting for our coffee for almost ten minutes."

It took Steve a second to realize he was the one being addressed. He summoned a cordial smile and nodded to the portly gentleman glaring at him from over the remains of a stack if rib bones. "I'm sure the waitresses are doing their best. I'll mention to one of them that you're waiting or I'll get you the coffee myself."

"Do you suppose that will be anytime this year?"

Steve set his jaw firmly against a sarcastic answer and arranged his face in what he hoped passed for a pleasant expression. "It'll be in a just a minute, sir. We appreciate your patience."

"Yeah, figures you folks would come in here and take over and then you can't even be polite about it. That's OUR table - every Wednesday night - an you don't see me giving _you_ a hard time."

Steve glanced over at a group of three younger men at a nearby table, all scowling at the portly man's party. "And we appreciate your patronage, sir. I promise we'll make it up to you. Now, I'll just catch the waitress - "

"Yeah, because Mr. High and Mighty needs his coffee. Never mind that I haven't had my beer refreshed. Usually I don't even have to ask - Darla knows me. Sometimes she even has time to chat - but not tonight. No, she's got important COFFEE to serve. Where the hell did that bus come from anyway, freakin' Buckingham Palace?"

Steve rubbed automatically at the bump at his hairline, made a face when he realized that he'd probably just anointed it with barbecue sauce. He lifted his hands. "Just settle down - the waitresses are serving as quickly as they can. If you'll both just be a little patient, you'll be taken care of shortly. Coffee for the bus tour is on the house, and sir - the house would also be glad to buy the next round of beers for your table." He couldn't wait to try and explain this one to Jesse.

The portly man sneered. "The busboy is buying drinks on the house?"

Steve managed to keep his smile in place. "I get really good tips," he quipped dryly.

"He's one of the OWNERS, you moron!"

Steve turned back to the beer-drinking table of three. "Sir, I appreciate the support, but - "

"Who are you calling a moron? Man puts on a busboy's apron, he should expect to be treated like a busboy!"

Kind of has a point, thought Steve ruefully. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to sit back down."

"Why should he sit down? It's the other guy that called him a moron! Been glaring at us ever since we got here! No reason for it, I tell you! Our money's as good as anybody else's!"

A large crowd of patrons, probably the bus tour, chorused universal approval of this sentiment.

Steve tried not to groan aloud. Oh, great, he thought. And me without my riot gear. "All right, all right - everybody just take it easy. I know it's been a trying night, but it's _one_ night and if you'll just be patient, you'll all be taken care of."

"Yeah, _our_ one night ."

Steve didn't even try to suppress his exasperated look at the beer drinking table. Regular patrons were important and _Bob's_ depended on them, but come on - they couldn't be expected to guarantee that nobody else would ever come in and sit down at the wrong table.

"Well, we can't help it that our bus got a flat tire!"

"Yeah, well, you could try being a little polite - come in here and start pushing the help around!"

Steve turned to glance at this fourth table. Great. Evidently the beer drinking patrons had some support, too. He'd better get this contained before it got completely out of hand. He spotted Cristina busy with a table in the corner, but Darla was nowhere in sight. Cristina glanced at him questioningly and he returned what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"I'll find someone with the coffee pot and bring you your beers, sir." He gathered the rest of the cutlery and dishes from the table and strode toward the kitchen, pausing by Cristina on the way. "Please tell me that there's coffee made," he breathed so that only she could hear.

"I just started a pot," she whispered back. "Should be about ready."

Steve flashed her a quick, relieved smile, then frowned again. "And where the heck has Darla disappeared to? This isn't a good time to be short of hands!"

Cristina made a face and finished unloading her tray onto the table before turning away from the patrons and lowering her voice still further. "Boyfriend trouble. Go easy on her, Steve - she's having a hard time."

Steve scrubbed at his forehead, wincing again as he hit the bump he couldn't seem to remember was there. "I'll - get the coffee and try to track her down. You have enough orders ready to keep you busy for a little bit?"

Cristina skimmed the counter with her eyes. "I've got the next three - then we're going to need you on kitchen duty again."

"Right," Steve gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder with his free hand. "I'll be as quick as I can."

Steve pushed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen and dropped his dishpan on the counter. A glance at the coffee station told him that a pot was nearly ready - he had time to load the dishwasher and start a quick wash run - cutlery especially was running awfully low. He plunked dishes inartistically into the machine racks and dumped in an unspecific amount of detergent, closing the door with one foot while snagging three long necked beer bottles from the cooler. He stared at them enviously for a minute. His plans for the day had definitely included being on the other end of one of these - nothing sure had gone as he'd imagined.

He lined them up on a tray with fresh creamer, hit the "on" button on the dishwasher, hooked a hand around the coffeepot handle, and opened the swinging door with his hip. Or meant to. The door swung suddenly inward - he lifted a hand to stop it, forgetting he was holding a coffeepot until the dull thwack of cracking glass reminded him, followed in quick succession by the chill smack of cold beer bottles against his chest as the tray flattened them there.

In the next instant he found himself doing a modified Mexican Hat Dance as the beer bottles dropped to the floor, spraying foam in a tinkling anvil chorus, and a waterfall of hot coffee exploded at his feet, baptizing his left shoe. He jumped back hastily, trying to avoid as much of the scalding brew as possible, slipped in the coffee/beer mixture and hit the linoleum on his side with a thud. Stunned, he tried to lever himself up, slid in the beer again and lay still.

"Steve!" There was a pair of waitress shoes, and then knees, in front of his eyes. He blinked at them. "Oh, Steve - I'm so sorry - I didn't realize - Cristina said we needed coffee…"

_Oh. Darla_.

"Let me help you up…are you hurt?"

Was he? He couldn't tell any more. Probably not - aside from feeling like he was trapped inside one of his father's _Laurel and Hardy _movies….

Darla was behind him with her hands tucked beneath his arms, trying to hoist him up. He struggled to get his feet under him, but they slid on the slick surface like a cartoon character's. He blinked at the floor, looking for a dry spot to get purchase. "Watch out for the glass…" he muttered automatically. Darla had managed to get herself positioned under hisright arm now, and him balanced onto his feet. He leaned on her shoulder and limped away from the mess, grabbing the counter for support. He felt Darla's anxious hand on his back, checking for damage.

"Are you okay? Steve, I feel just terrible. I can't seem to do anything right today…" Her voice cracked as Steve hefted himself cautiously onto a stool, still a little dazed.

_She_ couldn't? She should see his score for the day…He got a glimpse of her face and almost groaned aloud. Oh, no. Not more of the crying. He could deal with anything but the crying…

"Darla, I'm fine - " He reached out to pat her shoulder, noticed he was still holding the handle and neck of the coffeepot with a few shards of glass clinging gamely to it and tossed it in the sink. "Just a silly accident. Come on - it's not worth this - " He did reach her shoulder this time, and to his surprise, she fell into his chest, sobbing. His arm went automatically around her. "There, now - what's this all about? Not a couple of beers and some coffee and me taking a dive…"

"I'm sorry." Darla's voice was muffled by his shoulder. "I know I haven't done a very good job tonight - I walked out on my boyfriend today - I don't know what I'm going to do…"

"Oh, well - " Steve patted her awkwardly. Not exactly his area of expertise. "He'll probably come crawling back in a day or two. Why, I have another friend who had the same problem this morning and now it's all patched up."

"I don't know - " She accepted the paper napkin Steve handed her and blew her nose hard. "I know he loves me, but he promised never to hit me again, and - "

"He _hits_ you?" Steve tried to get a look at her face. "Darla, that is not a guy worth keeping."

Darla blew her nose again. "He does love me, I know it - "

Steve closed his mouth hard against the obvious rejoinder. Never ceased to amaze him how many woman confused a pop in the mouth with true love. "Look," he offered at last, "This isn't really the time to talk about this. We have a dining room full of customers and no coffee for them - but I promise I'll be fully available later to hear all about it. Now, do you think you can finish your shift, or do you want to go home?"

Darla blotted her eyes with the soggy napkin. "No, no - I want to stay and help - what do you need me to do?"

Steve eased himself off the stool, grimacing at the ache in his hip. "You can start a fresh pot of coffee. And Darla - let me drive you home tonight. I know this kind of guy - they don't always take rejection well."

Darla was already dropping a packet of coffee into the basket and hitting the brew button before reaching for the mop, but she looked up at that. "Oh, no, Steve - he wouldn't hurt me."

Steve counted to five, slowly. "You said he hits you…?"

Darla was efficiently mopping the glass and liquid together into one spot. "Well, that's just when he's had a bad day, or he gets jealous. He does love me…"

Steve counted to ten this time, using fetching the dustpan to cover what he was sure was showing on his face. "Just the same," he said at last. "Let me walk you to your car at least. I'll feel better."

Darla smiled shyly at him. "All right." She scuttled broken glass into the dust pan while he held it. "I'm sorry I was such a mess, Steve. It won't happen again."

"Well, life happens." Steve straightened carefully with his dust pan. "Now, do me a favor? That coffee is done and the natives are restless. If you'll bring it out to them, I'll finish the floor. Table Five is especially antsy."

"Right away. I'll get the beers, too. How many?"

"Three Red Dogs. Thanks. I'll be out as soon as I'm finished here."

"All right." Darla briskly set up her tray and snatched the coffee pot, startling him with a quick kiss on the cheek as she breezed past. She paused at the door. "Oh - and Steve?" Steve looked up from his mopping. "You know that clean shirt you keep here in case you're going out afterward?" She glanced meaningfully at his shirt front. "You might want to put it on."

Steve looked down at his t-shirt, liberally doused with splashes of beer, coffee, cream, and mascara. He stared at it for a minute, then began to pull it over his head.

Oh, yeah. Definitely.

Figured.

_TBC_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Er - no. Afraid I'm not QUITE done yet. I blame Steve, though - he makes an excellent fall guy. I've always meant to go back and count how many t-shirts were injured or lost their lives in the making of this story, but I never actually have._

_**9. No Pain No Gain**_

****

"Steve!"

Steve was in the middle of dragging his spare t-shirt over his head and had to fight to find the head hole. He managed to pop his head through, yanking the rest of the shirt down to cover his torso. _At least this one is brown. Maybe it will look sort of clean for more than a couple of hours._ "What now, Cristina?"

Cristina leaned through the pass-through to the kitchen, barely pausing to clip a number of orders to the revolving wheel. "I heard the crash! Is everything all right?"

"Yeah…" Steve allowed himself a second to rub his hands over his face. "A couple of beers and a coffeepot lost their lives, but the rest of us are fine."

Cristina squinted hard at him. "Then how come you're bleeding?"

Steve frowned at her. "I'm not bleeding."

"Think you are." She grabbed his right arm and twisted it so that he could get a glimpse of the back of it. Blood actually was running down it, dribbling from his wrist.

"Huh." He reached automatically for a clutch of paper napkins. "Must have landed on some glass. How many orders you got?"

"They can wait." Cristina disappeared for a second and reappeared in the entryway of the swinging door. "Let me see you arm." She tilted her head at him. "And what's wrong with your foot?"

"Nothing's wrong with my - "

"You're standing funny." She crouched down at his feet and gestured for him to sit.

Steve blew out a breath. This is what happened when you posted _'waitress needed' _ads on the hospital bulletin board. He half-perched on a stool. "Look, Cristina, I'm all for you furthering your studies, but - hey! Ow!" He actually jumped as she manipulated his shoe, a burning heat making itself known there for the first time.

"Your foot looks red. There's some little blisters starting, too."

"Oh." Steve slumped more deeply into the stool, suddenly tired. "The coffee. Must have scalded it. It'll keep - " She was on her feet again and at the freezer. "Look, I appreciate your concern, but we've got a whole dining room full of cranky customers who need our attention - what are you doing?" He stared as she emptied a bag of ice chips into a compact cooler.

"You're going to put your foot in here. It will stop the burning - really. The burn keeps doing damage for a while unless you pack it in ice - this will stop more blisters from forming and will keep it from hurting so much later."

_It was going to hurt later. Just great_. "We really need that ice for the drinks. Besides, I have a lot of orders to fill here - I can't be sitting around with my foot in an ice bath."

"That's why I chose this cooler - you should be able to move around with it on your foot - you can just sort of shuffle."

Steve stared at her. "You're kidding, right?" Cristina's answer was to grab his shoe and tug it off. "OW! Cristina!" She guided the foot toward the ice, but Steve yanked it away. "I don't think the Health Department would appreciate me being in the kitchen with a bare foot."

"That's why you need to put it in the ice cooler."

"Oh, and you think that Health Inspectors will accept that as a shoe?"

"It's first aid. Come on - " This time she got a firm grip on his ankle and pushed his foot into the ice, heaping it over the top.

The initial chill made Steve want to howl, but after a second the burning did stop, numbed in the cold. "That does feel better," he admitted reluctantly, studying it. "Can you get extra credit for something like this? Field duty?"

"I could write a paper. Let me see your arm…"

Steve was busy plucking orders off the wheel. "It's a cut. Just slap a band aid on it."

"It's actually pretty…oh…"

Steve glanced up from the plates he was lining up, startled to see Cristina pale. "You okay?"

"Yeah…" Cristina fanned herself with one hand while fumbling for the first aid kit. "It's the sight of blood…gets to me…"

Steve sucked in a breath as she dabbed the cut with antiseptic. "I thought you were pre-med?"

"Yeah…I don't see any glass in there - wonder if it should have stitches. Oh…" She pressed a gauze pad against the wound, looking hastily away.

Steve glanced at her warily again as he spooned servings of baked beans and coleslaw onto the plates with his good hand. "Isn't that kind of an inconvenient quirk to have if you want to practice medicine?"

"Not really. I mean, for now. I intend to specialize in something relatively bloodless, like Dermatology or Ear, Nose and Throat…" she wrapped the gauze with medical tape, keeping her eyes half-averted. "You're all set…wow…"

Steve glanced at her again. "Put your head between you knees for a minute."

Cristina sat on the stool Steve had vacated and tucked her head between her knees, folding her arms over her head. "Can you move okay with that cooler?" Her voice was slightly muffled by her position.

Steve reached for a rack of ribs with a side of sauce, dragging the cooler with him. "Yeah, it works." _Thank God Jesse isn't here. He'd have a heyday with this_. "Until I have to bus again, anyway."

"By then it should have stopped the burning and taken a lot of the sting out. There's burn cream - " she gestured over her shoulder without raising her head, "in the kit. You should put it on before you put your shoe back. And tie it loosely."

"Mm. Thanks, Doc."

Cristina stood up carefully. "I'd better check on my tables. That's a good trick. I'll have to remember it."

"Yeah, it got me through a lot of autopsies in my early days. I'll have these for you in a minute."

Steve was sliding his cooler across the floor to the fixings for a pulled pork sandwich when he stopped suddenly, staring from it to his assortment of bandages.

_How the heck did this happen? I'm like the Quasimodo of _Barbecue Bob's_. And the day started out so beautifully - so perfectly. Should have just rolled over and pulled the covers over my head. _

For a moment the air seemed to push in on him, redolent with the smoky scent of barbecue sauce, trapping him in a wave of misery.

He heard one of the girls clip a new set of orders to the wheel and Cristina call, "Steve? Are those almost ready? We've got some tables that need attention, too."

"Yeah, yeah - " Steve hastily constructed the sandwich, checking the order slips one more time. And tomorrow - which was not very far away - he'd be back to dancing with corpses. Somehow, somewhere, something had gone very wrong.

"Steve…?"

"I've got it." He wiped the plates and pushed them through the pass through, grabbing the next set of slips.

Next time he had a day off he was going into hiding - deep in the woods, or undercover, or maybe even a cave or something. Maybe another town. He lined up the new set of slips. Or country, even. Any place they didn't have barbecue. He reached for a fresh stack of clean plates and set them up. At the very least, he was unplugging the phone. Throwing it out the window. Something.

He read through the orders and grabbed a bag of frozen steak fries from the freezer, slitting the bag open and shaking them free over a wire basket, submerging the basket in the rumbling vat of grease. The fries hissed and added their scent to the heavy air, making him feel momentarily light-headed.

That's right - he never had gotten around to dinner, had he? Somehow, scraping all those plates of rib bones had killed his appetite for ribs. Maybe if he worked here long enough he would even learn to hate them. That was a depressing thought.

He lifted the basket out of the grease and let it drain for a minute while he checked on his sizzling ribs. The cooler shushed over the floor as he moved and he made a face at it.

If he could start this day over, what would he do differently?

He glanced at the drink orders - two Pepsis, one Fosters, one water - and set them up on a separate tray with ice and lemon.

Everything. He would do everything differently.

He divided the hot fries among the plates, crunching his eyebrows togetherwhen he remembered his father's face as he'd told him about the neighbors over breakfast, Amanda's voice as she'd asked him to help her out, and Jesse's few and far between opportunities to see his father.

On the other hand… it wasn't like he could ever actually -

"Steve?"

"Coming right now - " He shook himself to clear his head and tonged ribs onto each plate, wiping the plate edges, reread the orders one more time to be sure. Well, all that was water under the bridge anyway. But next time -

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cristina approach with a fistful of new order slips. She jerked her head toward the dining room to remind him that there were tables that needed his attention. He nodded to show that he understood.

Next time. Next time he'd plan a little further ahead - hide out. Go to ground. But for right now he needed to see if he could get his left shoe on and bus some tables.

He reached through the pass through and tapped the bell. "Order's up."

_TBC_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Ladies, ladies - I sympathize, believe me, but restaurants can't serve anyone not wearing shirt and shoes! I don't think they'd even make an exception for the lovely view. Still, I've done my best. (Longish one, but the last was a shortish one.)_

_**10. Look Before You Leap**_

There were things, actually, that he liked about bussing, Steve thought idly as he placed napkin-wrapped silverware and laid out placemats. It was so different from what he did with the rest of his time - a little mindless, exact, simple. You knew when you were done and everything looked a little nicer because of it. And nobody hated to see a busboy coming. You were either ignored or the sight of you made people smile. Usually.

He glanced around the dining room. Not so much tonight. Didn't look like anything was going to make this group smile. He finished setting up tables and got busy clearing a few others. Couldn't imagine what they were so bad tempered about, really - they were sitting down, waited on, well fed. He flexed his stinging foot and his stomach gave a growl. Sounded pretty good to him about now.

His shoe had gone back on without too much trouble, helped, no doubt, by the greasing of the burn ointment, and now he only had the slightest of limps, as likely to be due to his bruised hip as his burned foot. He grimaced. Hopefully there would be no foot pursuits on the agenda tomorrow, unless they were pursuing some eighty-year-old with a walker. Then he might stand an even chance.

He cast an eye over the dining room again. Most of the bus group seemed to have settled down to pie and coffee. The regulars appeared more inclined to beers and snacks, and while there was no open sparring, the dining room definitely had an undercurrent of tension completely unlike its usual laid back atmosphere. He peeked at his watch to see how long until closing. Surely it didn't take this long to fix a flat, even on a big bus tire? Or maybe the bus driver was enjoying a little break from his group. He collected dirty silverware and tossed it into the pan. Could hardly blame him.

He ran his rag over the table, noticed that his pan was full enough for an unload. He started toward the kitchen, letting his gaze skim the tables once more, making sure everything was under control. _Not bad, considering. Cristina had section two covered and - now, where the heck had Darla disappeared to again? _He paused halfway through the door to the kitchen, looking more carefully. After a second he shook his head. He'd give her five more minutes, then he'd go looking for her. Probably should have sent her home in the first place - then he and Cristina at least could have divvied things up so that they'd know what they were dealing with. Right now things seemed to be going okay, but even a couple of minutes could easily change that.

He hefted the dishpan onto the counter by the sink and bumped the faucet with his elbow to start the water running, holding fistfuls of silverware under it for a quick rinse, barely aware of the grumble of voices from the dining room. Just a couple more hours and he was free to go home and - he glanced at the clock again, made a face - crash until the alarm went off.

He dropped the silverware in the sink to soak for a minute while he pulled a basket of clean out of the dishwasher.

_Wonder what the odds are I'd be able to put in for a vacation_. Seemed like it had been a long time since he'd had one of those. On the other hand, if a vacation was as restful as his day off, he might be better off putting in for double shifts. The thought of surviving seven days like this made him shudder.

He was moving to the cutlery rack to put the clean silverware away when he became conscious of another sound - also voices, but not from the dining room. These were outside…sounded like the back alley, where they dumped the garbage and the staff took their smoke breaks. He stepped closer to the door, leaning in to listen. Had to be a little careful. This was the wall where Jesse had found him snoozing last night. Didn't want to take any more unscheduled naps.

He could make out an unfamiliar voice, but no real words - just a tone - raised and angry and a little - he tilted his head to listen more closely. Yeah. He'd made enough arrests of that kind, especially in his early days, to know - whoever it was, was under the influence of something. He heard another voice answer, higher and sweeter, and this one he recognized. Darla. What was going on now?

He didn't get an opportunity to puzzle it out because next came the sharp, familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh. His temper gave with a snap. He pushed his way through the door and into the alley.

Despite the fringe of motion lights illuminating the area it took amoment for his eyes to adjust from the brightly lit kitchen, but after a heartbeat or two he could make out Darla, one hand pressed against her cheek, with some young thug-wannabe clutching her arm.

The pair seemed to freeze for a second, startled to be interrupted, then Prince-Not-So-Charming growled, "Get lost. This is none of your business, man."

Steve smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. "Now, that's where you're wrong. You're standing at my place of business, and that's one of my employees you're keeping from her shift." Darla glanced timidly up at him and he caught a glitter of moisture on her cheeks. Steve's throat tightened with indignation. He crossed his arms over his chest to suppress the urge to swing. "I think it's time for you to leave."

The thug squinted at him, his eyes flat and blank in the half light. "You mind your own business and get out of here. This is between my girl and me."

Steve took a step closer. "From what I hear, she's not your girl any more."

The thin shoulders hunched and not-so-tall, dark and scruffy's frown deepened. He gave Darla's arm a shake, so that she rattled at the end of it like a rag doll. "What're you tellin' folks, huh?" His voice rose. "This what yer leavin' me for? Some busboy?"

"All right, that's enough." Steve inserted himself neatly between them, tucking Darla behind him and pushing her sweetheart away with a warning thump to the chest from the heel of his palm. "You've got about five seconds to settle down and shove off before you get to see what else it is I do for a living. Or if you like to hit people so much, why don't you try somebody your own size? Me, for instance?" Steve didn't cross his arms this time - he kept them free and ready. He had no doubt that he could take this guy in a normal fight, and certainly if he was drunk, but if he was high on the wrong thing - PCP, for instance - then it became a bit of a gamble. He waited.

The thug seemed to really take him in for the first time, and, blinking, he shifted uncertainly.

Steve watched him carefully. _Good. Maybe he would just turn tail and take himself away. Men who beat up on women were invariably cowards, but sometimes they were also incredibly stupid_.

"Steve - "

He felt Darla's tentative palm in the middle of his back, but kept his eyes on her suitor. "Go inside, Darla."

The boyfriend seemed shaken out of his uncertainty for a minute. "You stay here until I say so!"

Steve suppressed the urge to flatten him then and there and end this. "Darla, you have tables waiting. Last time I looked I was still paying your salary."

"Steve - " The hand on his back grew more insistent. "Maybe I should just - "

"Darla." _Boyfriend looks antsy. This can't be good_. "Just go in and get back to work. We'll talk about it later."

"So this IS the jerk you're leavin' me for!" Without warning, the boyfriend launched himself - probably at Darla, but Steve was still standing between them.

Steve had suspected something like this was coming and raised an arm to block the leap. That was his intention, anyway.

Unfortunately, Darla chose that moment to clutch at said arm, whimpering her alarm. "Oh, please, Steve - "

Steve turned slightly to try and pry her loose and caught the full weight of the jump's momentum smack in the middle of his chest. Darla's grip on his arm and his burned foot had him slightly off balance, and as Darla suddenly realized what she was doing, she abruptly let go. Boyfriend and Steve went down together in a tumbling heap.

Steve found himself pinned under the boyfriend's squirming weight. He felt hands tighten in the cotton of his t-shirt and grit his teeth in irritation, twisting his arm so that the elbow thunked into his attacker's sternum.

_Just my luck to get one of the incredibly stupid ones_. And he didn't even seem to respond to the blow to his sternum, though Steve knew from experience that those hurt. A lot. _Stupid AND high. Just great._

"I'll teach you to mess with MY girl!"

_Original, too. Why was it that all these Jamokes sounded about the same? _He shifted the elbow to create some space between them, got a hand loose and circled the looming neck with it. _Not, however, much of a sparring partner. _

He tightened his grip enough to cut off his attacker's air for just a minute and slow him down, then used his advantage to roll forward and reverse their positions, with him on top now, straddling his assailant's chest. He tried to grab and control the flailing hands. _Man, he was fueled with something all right - freakishly strong_.

He got the hands pinned and panted to catch his breath. "Enough of this - you're going downtown. You have the right to remain silent - "

"Steve!"

It was like being slammed across the back with a metal wall. Steve gave a grunt of surprise as the air left his lungs and he was briefly airborne, then slapped into the ground again, rolling, stung by the bite of gravel and slick with a few stickier substances that he devoutly chose not to think too much about. He was trying to push himself up on his knees and catch his breath at the same time when two sets of hands appeared out of the dim light to help him.

"Oh, Steve! I'm so sorry!"

Cristina. Really, this just didn't seem to be his day.

He heard the spatter and crunch of gravel that indicated that Mr. Wonderful was getting away. _Just great_. _Well, maybe that solved the problem just as well_…He tried to push upwards with the wrong foot and sank back on his haunches instead. _Ouch._

"I'm so sorry, Steve - I had no idea you were there. I was just looking for you because - well - it looks like things are heating up in the dining room and I thought you might want to break it up before they got out of hand..."

_Out of hand_. Steve chuckled before he could stop himself and Cristina's face appeared in front of him, puckered with concern.

"Are you all right? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

For some reason that made Steve laugh harder, and he saw Cristina and Darla exchange a troubled glance.

_All right, Steve, now you're scaring the help_…he took a slow breath and tried to pull himself together. "I'm fine." _Sort of._ That almost started him laughing again, but he held himself in check. He was okay in all the meaningful ways, anyway. "What's going on in the dining room?" He accepted the offer of Cristina's arm to help him push to his feet and staggered a couple of steps before rediscovering his balance, pressing one palm against the wall of the building, letting it take his weight until he was sure he had it. _Yeah. Okay._

He raked his hands through his hair and brushed some cinders from the heels of his palms before reaching for the door. His voice sounded a little steadier to his own ears when he repeated, "The dining room?"

Cristina took his arm to lead him into the kitchen, Darla following, still sniffling pathetically.

"Oh, there was an argument starting when I left - could get heated. I thought you might want to throw some cold water on it before it did. Not literally, of course - "

Steve frowned. He could just make out the edge of raised voices in the dining room. "Terrific," he muttered. He tried to get a glimpse through the pass through, but they were out of his line of vision. He moved to stiff-arm the swinging door from the kitchen instead, stopped at an insistent hand around his bicep.

"Steve!"

Steve glanced down at Cristina hanging from his arm, wondering why it seemed that somebody was always hanging on him tonight. "Cristina?" he prompted, a little impatiently.

"Don't you think - I mean - " she was gesturing to his chest, and he was suddenly aware of a faint breeze in that vicinity.

Groaning inwardly, he looked resignedly downward, following her hand. Sure enough, the t-shirt was rent from collar to waist. He took the halves in either hand, helplessly trying to fuse the two portions together. Maybe he needed to give up wearing t-shirts all together. After tonight, he probably didn't have that many left anyway. "Well, I don't know what I can do about it," he sighed at last. "I know I look like something out of _The Incredible Hulk_, but that was my spare. I don't have another one here."

"Jesse does," Cristina offered helpfully. "You could wear his spare one."

Steve's brows drew together in a frown. "How the heck do you think I could get into a t-shirt of Jesse's?"

But Cristina was already rustling through the small closet where the help hung their coats and stored their purses and car keys. "It'll be fine. They stretch, and besides, you wear your t-shirts too big anyway."

"That's a lot of - hey! I do not."

"You do." Darla's voice still sounded small, but she was nodding vigorously in agreement.

"I like my t-shirts comfortable," Steve defended himself. "And there's nothing worse than some guy walking around in a t-shirt that looks like he's going to burst out of it - just showing off."

"I'm sure it will look very nice." Cristina emerged triumphant with a light blue t-shirt clutched in her fist. She thrust it at him. "Besides, I don't think you really have a choice."

Steve glanced back down at the wide expanse of muscled chest revealed by the torn t-shirt and sighed. She had a point. Nothing could be much worse than this.

Tiredly, he accepted the t-shirt and started to pull the torn one over his head - not very hard, with the newly enlarged opening.

"Stanley Kowalski."

"Huh?" He tossed the ruined garment aside, thinking that if he wasn't so tired he might have the energy to be embarrassed about stripping down in front of the wait staff.

"Not _The Incredible Hulk_. More like Stanley Kowalski. In_ Streetcar Named Desire_."

"Oh." He slid his arms into the t-shirt, stretching it a little to create some extra give. _Sorry about this, Jess. I'll get you a new one. _"Look, Cristina, scintillating as this is, why don't you and Darla see if you can cool things down with coffee or a sweet smile or something? I'll be there in just a second."

Cristina tugged, frowning, at the hem of his t-shirt, then shrugged, disappearing through the swinging door, with Darla trailing behind her, still dabbing at her eyes.

Steve saw where the hem of the shirt ended and pulled hopefully at it himself, then abandoned it as pointless. Well, this was nice. A man of his age in a belly shirt. He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, trying to settle the fabric straining across them. _Much_ too snug, he thought dismally.

"That proves it. I do _not_ wear my t-shirts too loose," he muttered rebelliously, following the waitresses through the kitchen door. And ducking instantly.

Something whistled through the air and shattered against the door right where his head had been, swinging it wildly inward. Steve stared in disbelief at the remains of a standard make, white ceramic coffee mug, lying at the foot of the door. Indignation swelled within him. "Hey!" he said irritably. "Those cost money!"

The answer was another incoming missile, but this time a couple of decades of playing outfield stood him in good stead and he lifted a hand and felt it smack into his palm. He glanced at it. A sugar bowl. Perfect. So there was sugar needing a clean up somewhere too. "Hey!" he repeated. "That stuff on the floor attracts mice!"

No one took any notice of him. People were gathered in a circle as though watching a sporting event, blocking any clear view. He didn't immediately spot either waitress, but he did see a hand raised, flailing above the crowd, gesturing with a napkin holder. He stared. Were they crazy? You couldn't throw those! Those things weighed a ton! And he wasn't filling them again, either.

He took two long strides forward, heedless of the bodies parting hastily in front of him, and clamped a vise-like hand around it. "I said, that's ENOUGH!" He yanked hard, so that the napkin holder came free in his hand and slammed down on the formica tabletop with a crack that made even him wince. "What the heck are you thinking? Somebody could get hurt!"

He glanced from one antagonist to the other - the portly bus tourist, of course, and his disgruntled beer drinker. What the heck was their problem? Was there a good reason they couldn't just eat dinner in peace? "Look - " He shoved his hands into his pockets to stop himself from using them in a way he might regret. "You two have given us nothing but trouble since you got here. These girls have run their feet off trying to take care of you and I've tried to be as gracious as I could under the circumstances and all you've done is complain and snipe at each other and destroy my property." He shot a look around the shifting crowd, who suddenly seemed more timid, shuffling a little and glancing sheepishly at their shoes. "And you folks aren't any better - egging them on. So I'll tell you what - it stops right now, this minute. All of you who can settle up your bill and go, go. All of you waiting for your bus driver, sit down and be silent until he gets here, or I swear, I'm running you all in for disturbing the peace and bugging the hell out of a peace officer!" He caught sight of one of the elderly bus patrons out of the corner of his eye and reddened, mumbling quickly, "I meant heck."

The portly gentleman scratched at the back of his neck, his face shifting oddly. The beer drinker sniffed and rubbed an arm across his nose. They eyed each other warily.

"Or," Steve offered sternly, "You can stay - provided you apologize and shake hands. Right now." _And just when did I turn into a Kindergarten teacher? _

He waited. Neither moved at first, but the testosterone level in the air dipped noticeably. Steve didn't relax his stance.

The beer drinker shrugged moodily, dropping his eyes. "Guess I - guess maybe I overreacted."

Not to be outdone, the tourist cleared his throat. "I - I suspect I did some of the same."

"Huh - " The beer drinker hesitantly offered his hand. He seemed to forget that he was still holding a plate weapon, because it fell from his open grasp and hit the linoleum with a chiming sound, separating into three pieces.

Steve sighed, bending down to retrieve the shards. Must be his day for broken crockery. Well, hopefully this was the last dead soldier.

He scooped up the remains of the plate and started to straighten. Something sharp and pointed caught him hard in the right eye socket on the way up, shoving him backward. He gave a grunt of surprise as the momentum skidded his heels on the linoleum and he flopped over, splatting against the floor. The world telescoped into a bright white dot rimmed with darkness. Then it blipped out all together.

_(Sharon, you must be psychic! )_

_TBC_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Patscats, I vote for the reviews as being the funniest. You guys really make it a blast to post. I'm still laughing over Sharon's "knight in tattered t-shirts". Priceless. Wish I'd said that. And I'm sure with a few more females on the Board of Health, we could get Steve serving without his shirt. He may have to soon anyway._

_**11. It Isn't Over Til It's Over**_

_Someone was yelling. _

_Loudly. _

_Very loudly. _

_In Spanish. _

For a little while that was all he was aware of, and none of it seemed important enough to bother about. The next thing he gradually realized was that his right eye was throbbing.

Mercilessly.

In time with his pulse.

He could feel the pressure building up in the lid, so no doubt it was swelling - maybe even swelling shut. Probably it would be blackening. So he had a black right…wait a minute, wait a minute - wasn't that his _good _eye? So he had _two_…? He groaned out loud.

"Steve?" Instantly the Spanish yelling stopped and he felt a gentle hand on his forehead. "Steve? Are you all right?"

Aside from looking like a total geek with two black eyes? He was just peachy.

He reached up to cup one hand carefully over his right eye. "Yeah…" he rasped. Then, with more assurance, "I'm fine." He couldn't have been out for more than a second or two. He felt hands grasp at his biceps to help him sit up, then let go abruptly as the shrill avalanche of Spanish started up again.

Okay. He had it now. Spanish. That had to be Cristina. Had to tell her what a bad idea it was to yell at the patrons - in any language. He tried to get his elbows under him to push up under his own steam, but a hand on his chest stopped him.

"No, Steve! Lie still! You shouldn't move!"

Steve fumbled for the hand and gently peeled it away from his chest. "Cristina, I appreciate your dedication to your medical studies, but really, I'm fine. Think I just took one too many of these headers today. I'm going to get up now."

The hands reappeared at his biceps, but this time he got a blurry glimpse of Cristina swatting them away with a sharp exclamation in Spanish.

His brows quirked. _Well. This was a whole new side of her. _

He felt her slide her arm under his shoulders and lever him into sitting position. He stayed for a moment, letting the first level settle, before grabbing the edge of a table to pull himself up. The room swirled and wavered, and he was still for another minute until it stopped. _Probably the not eating wasn't helping either. _He sat down hard on one of the chairs and rested his elbows on the table to cradle his head in his hands.

"Did you hit your head on the floor?" He felt fingers brush the back of his skull. "Let me get you something for your eye."

_Yeah. You do that. _He thought about just putting his head down on the table, but that probably wouldn't look good. Voices hummed around him, but he couldn't seem to bring any words into focus. His hand jogged the bump at his hairline and he winced. _Oh yeah. Forgot about that one. _So he had that lump, both eyes…he touched the back of his head and felt the growing swelling under his hair…and, sure enough, he _had_ hit his head. Which meant he was in for that lecture about repeated blows to the head from his father…he groaned again.

Someone touched his shoulder and he heard another burst of Spanish as the hand was knocked aside. "Here you go…" the voice, switching to English when it addressed him, was incongruously soothing. He felt something hard and cold and wrapped in a dishtowel press into his hand and pushed it against his right eye.

_Better. _"What the heck happened?"

There was a shuffling of feet on linoleum, followed by the clearing of several throats. Curious, Steve raised his head enough to get a peek.

"It was me," the beer drinking patron burst out at last. "I mean, it was a accident. I was going to shake hands, like you said, and then, just as I was getting ready to, well, something bumped my elbow, and…and…turns out…"

"Oh." Steve swallowed down another urge to laugh. Laughter with a slightly hysterical edge would not help the situation - it just scared people. It was sort of starting to scare him.

"Look - I'm - I'm really sorry - "

Steve waved with his free hand. "Forget it."

"I'm sorry too."

Steve squinted his better eye to catch a glimpse of the portly bus patron.

There was an elderly woman with her hand tucked in the patron's arm, staring pointedly at him while he spoke. His face was red right up to his bald pate. "I - well, I behaved abominably." The elderly woman smiled encouragingly. "I suppose being stuck on a bus with twenty other people for two weeks - well - doesn't bring out the best in me - "

Steve smiled thinly. _Yeah, I can relate to that. I was in the service._

The elderly woman nudged the portly patron firmly and his red color deepened to scarlet. "Not - not that I'm making excuses. I'll pay, of course, for any damages. I'd like - " he paused, but another elbow in the ribs urged him on. "I'd like to pay for the beers for this young gentleman's table too. It's the least I can do."

Steve raised his brows. "That's not - "

"Please." The man smiled for the first time, and the change in his face was amazing. "I'd like to. I'm pretty embarrassed about the whole thing and it would make me feel better."

Steve nodded carefully, keeping the range of motion small. _Well, that would minimize awkward explanations to Jesse anyway…_

"And we'll clean up." This from the elderly woman. "No arguments. You just sit there and take care of that eye." She gave his shoulder a motherly pat, and this time Cristina didn't swat her hand away.

Steve thought about protesting, but half-rising to shake the portly man's hand convinced him that sitting still for a couple of more seconds wouldn't be such a bad idea. _Little woozy. _He thought of something else. "I might need a couple of minutes before I drive you home, Darla."

"Steve! I don't think you should be driving at all!"

Steve reached under the damp dishtowel and touched his swollen lid delicately. _Ouch. _"Cristina, really, I'm fine. It's just a black eye. I've had worse."

"But you can never be sure with head injuries," Cristina insisted. "I just had a symposium on head injuries, and - "

"I think," Steve interrupted gently, "it's more than a bit of an exaggeration to call this a head injury." _I hope._

"I could drive Darla home."

The new voice had Steve raising his brows, then wincing slightly as the motion pulled at the tender skin around his eye. He turned his focus on the beer drinking patron. "That's a very generous offer. But I - "

"That would be okay with me, Steve."

Darla's soft voice raised his brows a little higher, making him wince again. He turned his gaze back to the beer drinking patron. "You've been drinking," he pointed out.

"Just two beers!" the beer drinking patron turned as red as his hair. "I wouldn't never think of driving Darla if I didn't think I was okay to do it!"

Steve leaned back in the chair, studying him closely for the first time. _Hm. That sounded pretty good. Responsible._ The beer drinker looked to be about Darla's age, in a t-shirt blazoned with a band name Steve didn't recognize and a backward baseball cap. He had a straggly red goatee that looked more hopeful than dashing, and the way he looked at Darla made Steve thoughtful.

"Her old boyfriend might be looking to make trouble. Not sure you could handle it."

"I wouldn't let nobody hurt Darla!"

A corner of Steve's mouth turned up at the ferocity of his reply. He could see Darla blush. _Maybe this would do her good - to have even a car ride with a guy who would treat her with a little respect. Still_…he pushed slowly to his feet, keeping one leg braced against the table for support. He folded his arms over his chest and eyed the beer drinker up and down. "You, uh, know what else it is I do for a living, don't you?" He smiled when he said it, but it was a very hard, bright smile, filled with meaning.

The beer drinker seemed to be transfixed by the sight of the muscles playing under Steve's tight-fitting, borrowed t-shirt and could only nod dumbly.

"That's good." Steve flicked a piece of invisible lint from the shoulder of the boy's t-shirt. "Then you know I could make somebody disappear and the LAPD wouldn't even bother to look for them, right?" Steve laughed lightly to show that he was joking. Mostly.

The boy laughed along with him, sounding a little high-pitched and uncertain.

"So you'll drive very carefully, isn't that right? And obey all the traffic laws."

The boy nodded again.

"What's you're name?" Steve's hand came to rest on his shoulder, just a little more heavily than necessary.

"C- Clay." His voice cracked on the word.

"All right, Clay. And you know how upset I'll be if Darla is distressed in any way after this ride? I know you don't want me to be upset." Steve's benevolent smile broadened wolfishly.

"I - I would never dis - distress Darla," her swain squeaked, with all the bravado he could muster.

Steve smiled for real this time. "Glad to hear it. You two kids take care, then. Darla - you have my cell number. Call if you think anything even looks a little peculiar."

"I will, Steve." Darla smiled shyly and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Thanks for everything, Steve."

He aimed his blurry stare meaningfully at Clay. "That goes for you, too. You see anything that looks even a little suspicious, just stay in the car and call me. Don't try to take care of it yourself. Got it?"

"Yeah, sure." Clay was almost bouncing with eagerness now. "C'mon, Darla," he tugged insistently at her arm. "I'll show you my car."

Steve watched as Clay ushered Darla to the door, then lowered himself gingerly back into the chair. He shifted the ice pack on his eye, frowning.

"They make a cute couple, don't they?"

He glanced up to see that Cristina was watching too. "Well, he's got to be a big improvement over that loser she was dating." He shifted the ice pack again, trying to make it fit comfortably, finally pulled it away. "What the heck have you got in here, anyway? It doesn't feel like - " He peeled back the towel, then stared at the frozen block of ribs.

Cristina shrugged apologetically. "Between the drinks and your foot we used all the ice. I thought that would work just as well."

The front door swung inward and Steve reflexively reached a hand across to the holster that wasn't there. He rolled his eyes at himself - or, he rolled the better one anyway. _Jumpy today. _Part of him kept expecting Darla's druggy boyfriend to return and make trouble. Silly. He was probably off somewhere trying to score a new fix by now - and a new girlfriend.

The figure in the doorway certainly bore no resemblance to him. A tall, tired-looking middle-aged man stood there, seeming reluctant to enter all the way. He was running to paunch now, but something about the way he held himself made Steve think he'd either been on the Force at one time, or in the military, or both.

"I'm sorry," Steve began, "But we're about to close - "

"Just came to pick up my bus passengers." He didn't sound very enthusiastic about it. He raised his voice. "Tire's fixed folks - you kin git back on the bus and we'll git to the hotel. Sorry you had to wait so long."

He didn't sound particularly sorry. Steve couldn't bring himself to blame him.

"We have to settle up."

Steve smiled at the grey-haired wife of the portly passenger and started to rise to go to the cash register.

Cristina waved him back down. "You sit. I'll get it. I know how."

Steve opened his mouth to demur, then decided against it. If he pushed, Cristina would probably start looking in his eyes and feeling around his head and all those other irritating things medical people always insisted on doing. Better to sit tight until they had to clean up.

The bus patrons flocked to the register, buzzing with conversation, for all the world looking as though they'd enjoyed a pleasant evening. They were stuffing bills into the tip jar and graciously thanking Cristina.

Steve watched them in wonderment, rewrapping the frozen ribs to settle a fresh cold spot against his eye. No matter how old he got, people never ceased to amaze him. The portly gentleman broke off from the group for a second and hurried back to Steve's table. Steve watched his approach warily.

"For your trouble." The man thrust a bill into his hand.

"Sir - it's not - "

The man held up his hands to show he wasn't discussing it and slid his arm around the grey-haired woman's shoulders, following the crowd out the door. Steve watched them go with a small glimmer of wistfulness. Everybody seemed to be pairing off today except him. Oh, well.

Cristina waved goodbye to the last of them and pulled out the cash drawer. She walked over to his table and put it in front of him. "Can you see straight enough to close out the drawer while I load the dishwasher?"

Steve looked at the stack of receipts and bills. "Sure." He threw the bill the portly man had given him on the table next to the drawer and reached for the slips of paper.

Cristina gasped and snatched it up. "Steve! That's a five hundred dollar bill! Where did you get it?"

Steve took it back from her and frowned dumbly at the picture of McKinley. _Wow. Just - wow._

Cristina snatched it back. "I don't think I've ever seen one before!"

"It was that guy - from the bus - the one with the attitude. I mean, the earlier attitude."

Cristina whistled. "At least he knows how to make it up to you! Does this have to pay damages, or…?"

Steve grinned knowingly. "It will go in the pot, just like any other tip, so one third is yours and another third is Darla's. The rest can go toward damages."

Cristina stuck her lip out. "I don't think the rest should go back in the restaurant. You should keep something for yourself. It was a rough night."

Steve fought down a chuckle at the magnitude of that understatement. "The owners don't get tips, Cristina. Besides, you know as well as I do that you're going to spend your third on text books instead of something fun too, right?"

Cristina lifted her chin. "I might. Or I might buy myself a steamy new dress for clubbing." Her face changed. "Or there's this really nice stethoscope I've been saving for - it has three different heads, and - "

"I rest my case." Steve reached for a stack of cash and began counting.

"Hmph." Cristina made a face at him. "You police detectives are all alike."

Steve grinned, keeping his eyes fixed on the bills he was counting. They showed a tendency to get just a little fuzzy around the edges. "You know a lot of police detectives?"

"You. And - you know - television." Cristina scrubbed vigorously at the nearest table.

"Stereotypes," Steve chided.

"They get those characters from somewhere."

"Yeah - wild imaginations." He blew out his breath in exasperation as one of the bills blurred again. _That could be a five - or it could be a fifty. _He threw it down and massaged his temples. "Cristina, I'm sorry, but I really need you to do this - my focus is still a little off. What do you say you count while I take out the garbage?"

Cristina stowed her rag in an apron pocket and came back to his table. "Are you sure you're up for it? I really think you should be lying down."

Steve intercepted the hand that reached for his forehead and put it gently aside. "I think I can manage a little garbage. And I'm sure not letting you do it. I'll be fine as long as I don't have to read anything."

Cristina didn't look convinced, but Steve heaved to his feet and made his way toward the kitchen door, limping slightly.

Cristina sat down by the abandoned cash and began to count. "You'll let me know if you need help?"

Her voice carried through the pass-through. "I'll let you know," he called back. He propped open the alley door and started hurling overstuffed garbage bags through it. It was astonishing how much garbage a small eatery could produce in a day. He pushed the last bag through and followed it outside, letting the door swing closed behind him. Funny how garbage could be a cop's best friend, and a restaurateur's worst enemy.

He flipped open the dumpster and picked up the first bag, pitching it expertly inside. He couldn't imagine how Cristina thought she'd be able to manage this at her size.

He reached for the next bag, swinging it to follow the first. The back of his neck prickled warningly, and he clucked his tongue impatiently as he picked up a third bag. Good thing this day was almost over. He needed to get some sleep and get back on an even keel so he could stop jumping at his own shadow and imagining trouble around every corner. He was starting to act like a three-year-old who thought there were monsters under the bed and in the closet.

He had his arms under the third bag and was raising it over his head for a throw when a sound on the loose gravel made him spin automatically on his heel. Before he could tell himself how silly he was being, he got a whooshing glimpse of something big and wide and blurry, swinging in a vicious arc, right at his head.

_TBC_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Sorry to be so late - what a week. Short chapter, too, but we're heading for resolution. Obviously I was well into writing this one before I decided to try to let Steve get off without a head injury, but I'm working on that for the next one._

_**12. It Isn't Over**_

Training kicked in long before Steve really made sense of what was happening and he thrust the garbage bag in the path of the swinging object. The force of the blow slammed him into the dumpster wall and he felt the metal rim rattle off the back of his ribcage as the garbage bag split, spewing old coffee grounds and rib bones and lettuce and baked beans everywhere. He tossed it aside and grabbed another, using it as a shield as he tried to get a glimpse of the piece of darkness that seemed to have detached itself and become animated.

He was close enough that he could make out the floating white spots that must be eyeholes in a ski mask. The figure was indistinct, but he sensed the motion that brought it in for another blow. He let it get close this time, angling the bag as protection, and while it was paying attention to the bag, reached forward with one foot and hooked a calf. The figure went down, grabbed the garbage bag for balance and brought Steve down with it.

The second bag burst as they hit the gravel. They rolled through the detritus, each struggling for the upper hand. Steve found he had automatically cataloged his attacker's size and weight without being conscious of it, and he figured that if he could get the advantage, his own superior size should help him keep it.

The something swung at his head again - some kind of makeshift weapon like a board or a pipe, he figured - but he ducked it deftly and felt it thunk into his side instead. Painful, but just enough to keep him awake and mad. He took advantage of the weapon's proximity to his wrist to grab it and twist it, awkwardly pulling it away and throwing it as far as he could manage. The sudden disarmament startled the figure enough that it paused, confused and regrouping, and Steve took the opportunity to grab the now-empty hand this time and pin it to the pavement.

"I'm warning you," he ground out, "I have had a _really_ bad day and I am in a _really_ bad mood, so if you're smart, you'll give yourself up right now."

The figure lay still for just a second, then its free hand whipped up towardSteve's head, clutching something. Steve felt it coming and countered by grabbing the turtleneck near his free hand and swinging the torso into the side of the dumpster. The head hit with a resounding clang, and the flailing arms and legs went limp.

Steve flipped the figure over on its stomach and straddled its back, groping until his hand found one of the adjustable plastic rings that secured the garbage bags. He gathered the flaccid wrists together and slid the ring around them, tightening it.

Great. Just like flex cuffs, he thought with satisfaction. Now let's see what we've got here - a robber, or - he tugged at the ski mask. The street light that partly lit the alley showed a familiar face, slack and senseless in the shadows. Steve grunted, yanking him to his feet and hissing a little as the motion pulled at his side where the weapon had hit. "Yeah, I thought I recognized the moves. I never forget an idiot. Get in there - "

He threw him unceremoniously at the kitchen door, wading through the garbage to catch him as he hit the door and started a boneless slide to the ground. Steve got him around the waist and slung him over one arm as he maneuvered the door open. In the brighter light of the kitchen, he could see that his perp's nose was bleeding, and that he looked barely conscious. Still, not taking any chances, he dropped him on the floor.

"Stay down," he warned. "Cristina?" Cristina peeked through the pass-through. "Did you lock the front door? And I need you to dial 911."

"What?" Cristina appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Of course I locked the front door. What - ? Oh!" She stared at the crumpled figure at his feet, then at him, her mouth hanging ajar.

"Darla's ex. Seems he just can't get enough of our company. Dial 911, will you? Tell them to send a car. Then secure the cash bag."

Cristina was still staring at him. She swallowed slowly. "Do - do you want an ambulance…?"

Steve nudged the figure with his foot. "Yeah, you'd better. I'm pretty sure he's high."

She swallowed again. "I meant for you." She pointed. "You're bleeding…"

Steve followed the direction of her finger to the aching spot on his side, noted with surprise that the cotton of the t-shirt was torn and slick with blood.

"It - must be from his nose - " He touched it and pain arrowed through him, so quick and intense that his knees turned to jelly and he had to shoot a hand out to latch onto the sink. It kept him upright, but sitting down suddenly seemed like a good idea. He slid to the floor with the counter at his back. "Call - ?"

"Yeah." Cristina's voice was faint.

Steve looked up in time to see the color wash from her face. "Cristina!" he said sharply. "Head between your knees! Head - " He caught her hand, about all he could reach from his position on the floor, and pulled her down beside him, pressing firmly on the back of her head until she leaned forward. "That's it. Deep breaths…" With his other hand he struggled to pull his cell phone from his belt, thumbing the three numbers from memory.

He glanced from Cristina to the perp as a voice came on the line. "Yeah, this is Lieutenant Sloan of the 1-5, badge 362. I've got a 664, 211 at _Barbecue Bob's _on Melrose. I need a car. Perp is subdued at the scene. Probable UI - send a bus."

The room was suddenly close and hot and he had to close his eyes to clear a trembling shimmer from the air. He felt dampness seeping down the waistband of his jeans, an odd buzzing building in his ears. He sat very still, then reluctantly lifted the phone back to his mouth. He sighed resignedly. "Better make it two."

_TBC_

_NOW, Ninjahurt, CG - cross my heart. _


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Tracy, your wish is my command! I'm sorry to say, but this truly is a comedy - not much drama to be had in it. The one I'm working on now has much drama and very few laughs, however. Okay, maybe a couple of laughs. It just seems to happen._

_**13. A Stitch in Time Saves Nine**_

Russell Coopersmith was having a very good night.

His supervisor, Jesse Travis, had left him in charge of the ER, a show of confidence that had simultaneously stunned and thrilled and terrified him, and he had risen to the occasion, if he did say so himself. Even that four-car accident, which had frozen him with momentary terror, had been resolved with minimal fuss and efficient treatment. All right, the nurses' triage system was probably responsible for a lot of that, but nonetheless, he had kept his head and kept things running.

In his mind's eye, he visualized Dr. Travis reading over his meticulously detailed report (Okay, he hadn't written it yet, but he planned to make it meticulously detailed, modestly minimizing his own accomplishments, which would no doubt still shine through like a beacon) and nodding his head in approval. Perhaps he would say something like, "Looks like I chose the right man for the job." Not just that, exactly, but something like that. And he himself would give a humble nod (Humility was very important, because he had a high regard for Dr. Travis and didn't want him to think that he had a swelled head!). And then perhaps Dr. Travis would slap him on the back, and mention his name in important circles.

It was a lovely daydream - so lovely that he almost forgot what he was stitching and nearly kept going beyond the laceration, but he remembered in time and hastily knotted and clipped the thread, smiling at his patient; a dock worker with a slit thumb. "Keep that clean and dry and use this ointment with a new dressing twice a day," he intoned, in his best Marcus Welby voice. The dock worker nodded and slid down from the table, cradling his hand.

Russell smiled in benevolent satisfaction. Another moment of healing. It was a good life, doctorhood. Rewarding.

"Doctor?"

Russell expanded his benevolent smile to include the nurse who entered with a clipboard in hand.

The nurse glanced at the dock worker, who was gathering his things to leave, and bent close to Russell's ear and whispered.

Russell's face went white.

_No. _

Anything but that. Anything but _that_ in the middle of his perfect night. He stared at the nurse, as if staring could make her change what she had said.

The nurse waited patiently, then prompted, "Um…did you want me to assign him to someone else…?"

Russell gulped. Yes. He did want that. Very much so, thank you for asking. Let some other poor schmuck have the blot on his record…he gulped again, wrinkling his face in internal anguish.

But Dr. Travis had left him in charge. Dr. Travis would expect him to take care of this personally, not shove it off on some poor unsuspecting flunky. He mentally pictured explaining to Dr. Travis that he had been too busy - too occupied - to treat…no. He couldn't do it. Not to mention what Dr. Sloan himself, the CHIEF of INTERNAL MEDICINE, would have to say if he thought he had dodged treating…no. No, it was up to him.

He took a deep breath. "Which room?" His voice sounded thin and reedy.

"Examining Room 4."

He squared his shoulders. He was a doctor. It was his job to treat the sick and injured - _all_ the sick and injured! Even - even the ones that fought back. He would not flag now!

He marched to Examining Room 4, bracing himself briefly outside the door.

You are the doctor, he told himself sternly. You are in charge. It is up to you to control the situation. Stiffening his spine, he entered the examining room.

And almost reeled back. The smell was horrific - some combination of rotting food and a syrupy sweet, smoky aroma that he couldn't quite identify.

His patient sat quietly on the examining table with his head bowed. One glance at the substances coating his clothing and it was easy to tell where the smell was coming from. Russell made a face but pressed on, taking the clipboard from the nurse and scanning it.

"Good evening!" he smiled with determined cheer. "And how are we this evening?"

The patient gave him a blank stare.

Russell winced a little at the sight of his face. One eye was swollen and turning deep purple-blue, the other was shadowed by a greenish bruise underneath. He glanced at the clipboard again.

But that didn't look to be the crux of the problem. He moved around to the patient's left side where he could see a stained rough dressing showing under the fabric of his encrusted t-shirt.

"Hm." He lifted the shirt to get a better look. The patient didn't so much as flinch. He reached for a pair of scissors.

"It's ruined, isn't it?"

The sound of another voice startled Russell, the man had been so silent to this point. Uncertain as to what they were talking about, he ventured, "Pardon?"

The patient plucked at the t-shirt clinging wetly to his front, staring down at it forlornly. "The t-shirt. It's ruined, isn't it?"

"Um, well - " Russell grimaced at the grime and stench soaked shirt, one side split with a jagged tear, and shrugged apologetically. "I - yes. I'm afraid it is."

His patient nodded with despondent resignation, as though he had expected no better.

"I'm going to have to cut it off - ?" Russell gestured with the scissors.

The broad shoulders lifted in the smallest of shrugs, then slumped sadly.

Hm. He had heard that police officers didn't make much money, but it must be bad indeed if the man was so crushed at the loss of a t-shirt. He felt a little glow of fellow-feeling. Residents didn't make much money either - so he understood what that was like.

He brandished his scissors as carefully as he could, peeling the fabric away from the quiescent torso and holding it at an arm's length to drop it in the plastic bag the nurse held poised nearby.

The patient's eyes followed the path of the t-shirt, a little frown pinching his brows together, but he didn't say anything.

Russell looked again and cleared his throat. "The uh - the nurse will get you a gown…you're going to have to remove your jeans too. They're in the way of - um - "

The patient's frown deepened, as though English was his second language and it was taking a little while to organize itself into recognizable words, but after a second he slid obediently off the table and leaned against it to unbutton his jeans.

The nurse dropped her pencil, blushed hotly, and bent to retrieve it. Russell gave her a stern, reproving look.

"Now," he smiled, addressing his patient and helping him slip into the loose gown. "Isn't that more comfortable?"

The patient just stared at him again, and after a second Russell helped him back up on the table and pulled the temporary dressing loose. He adjusted the lights and poked and prodded, now all business. It must have hurt plenty, but his patient might have been a mannequin for all the notice he gave it.

"It's more of a tear than a cut," he observed. "What caused it?" The patient stared at him again and Russell silently made a note to check for head injuries. He seemed so non responsive. "It doesn't look like a knife…?" he prompted.

The patient blinked. "Yeah. Um - I don't know. I thought maybe a pipe or a board…the cops at the scene will find it."

Russell thought that "cops at the scene" had a very dramatic sound, but out loud he just said, "It looks deep. I'll take some pictures to see the extent of the damage."

He reached for a penlight and studied his patient's eyes. "The damage to the left eye looks older than the right?"

"The left one happened this morning. The right - um - about an hour ago. Maybe less."

"And this? Which one did this go with?" He pressed gently on a blue lump just at the hairline.

The patient reached up and rubbed at it, as though trying to recall. "Somewhere in between, I guess."

Russell stepped back, appalled. A police officer's job must be very dangerous indeed, if he had taken three beatings in one day! He was horrified, and more than a little impressed. "Well, I'll take pictures of your head too, just to be safe. Now, I'm going to check your breathing, Mist - Loo - Det - " he broke off, flustered. "Um, do you prefer Mr. Sloan, or Detective…?"

The patient stared at him again, as though trying to remember who he was. "Steve," he answered after a minute.

"Steve." Russell nodded, suppressing a warm glow. He imagined for a minute off-handedly referring to the son of the Chief of Internal Medicine by first name in casual conversation with the rest of the residents. "I'm going to listen to your breathing, then we'll send you to x-ray. It's a very dirty wound, so I'm at least going to prescribe some antibiotics - I see by your record that you had a new tetanus shot just this morning, so that's very lucky, isn't it?"

Steve gave a short, barking laugh that, Russell reflected, had a decidedly sardonic edge to it. Of course, detectives were a hard boiled and sardonic breed, at least if Raymond Chandler was to be believed. He pushed down a little dart of envy as he adjusted his stethoscope. It was easy to pull off sardonic if you were a detective and the kind of man that nurses dropped their pencils over - it was much harder if you looked more like Howdy Doody than Sam Spade and wore a white lab coat.

"Take a deep breath." He had to repeat it, but after a minute his patient took a deep, sighing breath and released it. The need to repeat himself again concerned him, but the eyes had looked all right when he had examined them. Still, he'd order a CT scan. Better safe then sorry. He moved the stethoscope. "Again." He listened hard. _Whoops. That sounded a little_…but maybe he was just being an alarmist. He adjusted the stethoscope again. "One more time?"

_Hm. _Nope, that was definitely something he needed to check. He groaned inwardly. Well, maybe it would turn out to be nothing. He would look at some films and hopefully pack up Mist - Loo - Det - _Steve_. Pack up Steve and send him on his happy way. Then Dr. Travis would nod approvingly at the way he had treated his best friend and partner and maybe even Dr. Sloan would shake his hand and thank him for taking care of his son…possibly he would even be invited to the legendary beach house for one of the famous gatherings there…it wasn't impossible. It had happened for Dr. Travis and for Dr. Bentley before him and for a Dr. Stewart before that. But he was daydreaming again and felt himself flush as he shifted the stethoscope once more.

"Breathe?" His patient inhaled and exhaled again with a tired-sounding whoosh. "All right."

_Damn. _He folded up his stethoscope. "Now we're going to send you to x-ray and then I'll be by again to talk to you about whatever I see." Steve barely nodded in response and Russell patted his shoulder automatically. For all his reputation, the Lieutenant was one of the quietest patients he had ever treated. He helped him off of the table as the curtain pulled back to reveal an orderly manning a wheelchair. For the first time, his patient seemed to balk.

"I'll walk," he protested.

Russell squirmed, trying to look authoritative and in control. "We have - um - policies…"

Steve stared at him for another moment, then nodded dully. Breathing an inward sigh of relief, Russell watched as the nurse helped his patient into the chair. Something struck him as he watched the process and he reached out a hand to stop the orderly as he prepared to wheel the chair away. "Wait a minute - " he addressed the patient directly, "is there something wrong with your foot?"

_TBC_


	14. Chapter 14

_(A/N: The other one is still a work in progress, I'm afraid, and I don't like to post before they're done, so it will be a little bit before that one's ready. But it's coming. Many thanks to all of you who hung in there with me throughout this - I really didn't expect it for a comedy.)_

_**14. Discretion Is the Better Part of Valor**_

Russell Coopersmith was having a very bad night. He hadn't been able to get a very coherent story from his patient about his scalded foot - something about coffee, but the details had remained vague. Perhaps he had been on stakeout and in one of the fights that had resulted in his black eyes or bumps his coffee had been spilled on his foot. Russell was not able to form a very clear picture of how this would work, but he knew that cops always drank coffee on stakeout, so it was the best explanation he could come up with.

The good news was that the foot only had first degree burns, so he had treated it with burn ointment and wrapped it lightly. Normally, it wouldn't have required any wrapping at all, but a foot required a little extra care to keep it clean.

The bad news was that examination of the foot had brought his attention to a blackening bruise on the patient's hip, which Russell had decided also needed an x-ray, just to be safe. The discovery of an injury he had previously overlooked had sent him into a near-panic, and, fearing what else he might have missed, he had doubled back and examined his patient so rigorously that Steve's blank stare had morphed into a frown of acute longsuffering, before he had finally wrapped a hand over his eyes and simply sagged dispiritedly while Russell did his worst. Russell grimaced at the memory. Well, one of them had felt much better after the examination anyway.

He studied the films clipped to the light board in front of him and sighed. But of course, now here was the worse news.

A police officer had stopped by to talk to Steve between the CT scans and the chest series and Russell had been fascinated to listen to the questioning, though much of the conversation had remained incoherent to him. Probably cop talk, he thought wisely. The other officer had seemed to find his colleague's situation hilarious, something that left Russell shocked and a little repelled, especially when the officer explained that they thought they had found the weapon - an old piece of lumber with a few jagged nails sticking out of the end, now bloodstained. He had gone on to explain cheerfully that they were testing the blood to make sure it matched Steve's, but that they were pretty sure, and would the doctor be needing it for anything, because they really wanted to hang onto it for evidence.

Russell had shaken his head dumbly to indicate that the information was all he needed, puzzled as to how being stabbed with old nails could be even mildly amusing. He had eyed his patient with growing respect. It must be some mysterious police thing.

He shrugged off the memory and turned his gaze hopefully back to the light board, but everything that had shown on the films a few minutes ago was still there. He sighed again. All right. There was no help for it - it had to be done. He'd better just go - do this. He unclipped the x-rays and slipped them into a grey envelope and started back toward the treatment rooms with his feet dragging.

He found his patient stretched out on an examining table with one arm draped over his eyes, a nurse just finishing cleaning out the wound in his side. Russell nodded to her to indicate that she should stay to assist while he did his stitching and took a deep breath to let his patient know he was there.

"So!" he said with forced brightness, "How are we feeling now?"

Steve didn't answer, but he did try to lever himself into sitting position, stopping with a grunt of pain as the movement pulled on his wound.

Russell hurried forward to help him ease himself upright. "Getting up and down is going to be a little tricky for a while," he offered. Then he cleared his throat self-consciously. _Better just get this over with. _"So, I've had a chance to look at your films…"

Steve just stared at him with a return of that disconcerting blankness. Russell twitched. Maybe he needed to recheck those CT scans. But the results had seemed so clear…"Your head seems to be just fine. No real injury there, just a bump. Er - bumps." _Always a good idea to start with the good news first. _

Steve made no comment, but his expression clearly stated that he knew that, but that nobody ever listened to him.

Russell shrugged apologetically. "Anyway, that's - that's good. The - um - the chest series - " he gestured with the grey envelope. _Come on, Russell - you are the doctor - you are the one in charge. Take control. Be firm. Be strong_. "Is - a little - um - less good."

Steve's expression did not budge from it's weary indifference and for a minute Russell wanted to shake him to be sure he was in there. No matter, once he said what he had to say, the lieutenant would doubtless spring to life with a vengeance.

"Not - not very bad - " he stammered on doggedly. "But - um - there seems to be a small nick in the lower lung - very small, mind you - bleeding just a little. It might just clear up all on its own, but to - um - to be safe, we um - " _Here it goes! _He took another deep breath and finished in a rush, "Weneedtokeepyouovernightforobservation."

_There. _He had said it. He peered cautiously at his patient, who had his brows pushed together again as though he was trying to sort out the words. "Probably - probably just overnight, you understand…" he babbled hopefully, wishing he could make himself stop talking.

"You want to keep me overnight?" Steve repeated slowly after a minute. His expression remained unchanged.

Russell bit his lip and nodded. He watched as Steve switched his gaze to the hands hanging lifelessly between his knees. He'd either fallen asleep, or he was thinking very deeply. Russell held his breath and waited, his strong arguments all carefully held at the ready, his authoritative words scrupulously marshaled, even a hypodermic secreted nearby with the nurse if the need should arise. He tried to straighten his shoulders and look firm.

Steve reached up and rubbed mindlessly at the back of his head as though just noticing that it hurt there, then looked Russell in the eye for the first time. "Overnight," he repeated. "Tonight."

Russell swallowed. "Just - yes. Tonight. Probably just tonight."

Steve nodded again, as though carefully processing this.

Russell hunched in his lab coat and tensed for the explosion.

"I don't suppose you've got a private room available?"

"A - ?" Russell felt his jaw drop and made every effort to close it. This was so unlike any response he had imagined that he stumbled over himself as he answered, "A - a - I - I'm sure we can - that we have - yes. Yes. We must have."

Steve nodded again, slowly, considering. Russell wondered if this was the moment to hustle him away to the room before he changed his mind, but he hadn't even stitched him up yet. While he was considering his best course of action, Steve continued, "They have televisions, right?"

_Televisions. _So he was saying he was willing, without any argument, to…? Filled with a rush of giddy relief, Russell burst out, "Oh, yes! They all have televisions - with cable! Telephones, too!"

"No telephone!"

The outburst was so fierce and so at odds with his despondent behavior so far that Russell actually stumbled backward in surprise.

This time his patient was the one to look embarrassed and clear his throat. "Um - " He shrugged a little, giving him an abashed, hopeful smile. "I meant - just seems like a waste - " the smile broadened unconvincingly, wheedling. " - a telephone for just one night?"

Russell's heart swelled with indignation this time. Now, really. This was taking economy too far. A man like Lt. Sloan - that is, _Steve_ - risks his life every day protecting and serving them all and gets beaten up at least _three times _in one day, and the city can't even pay him well enough to afford a phone in his hospital room? Really, it was shocking. He had half a mind to write a stinging letter to the mayor. He felt a rush of protectiveness for his beleaguered patient. "You don't have to have _anything_ you don't want," he assured him staunchly. "_Anything."_

Steve looked a little taken aback by his vehemence but nodded. "Ah - thanks." He looked down at his hands again, then back at Russell as though he wanted to ask something else. His ears reddened slightly, but he proffered that same hopeful, brilliant smile.

A little hesitantly he ventured, "And…I don't suppose the kitchen is still open? I'm starved."

0000

Russell felt he had things well in hand again at last. He had been determined to find something for Lt. Sloan to eat, even if it meant sending for take out, but as it turned out, such extreme measures weren't necessary. The kitchen still had a limited number of items available, and promised to send something to Lt. Sloan's room - a private room, which admitting had managed to find for him. After further thought, he had checked to see which nurses had night duty on that floor and had decided that Lucy Chesterton always had a soothing and warm-hearted bedside manner, so he placed a call to ask her to keep an eye on his patient. The city might not take good care of its boys in blue, but he was determined that the same would not be said of Community General - not on his watch, anyway.

Lucy had seemed to know who Lt. Sloan was, and had been decidedly willing and cheerful at the prospect of offering him a little extra special care. Satisfied that he had done his small part to protect the men who kept the city safe, Russell returned to his report, as meticulously detailed as it had been in his fantasies, and was just finishing it when Dr. Jesse Travis swept into the ER, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, his suit jacket tossed carelessly over one arm.

"Hey!" he gave Russell a friendly clap on one shoulder. "Hear you had a rough night."

Russell was a little flustered to see him and stammered, "It was - it was fine. Everything went - just fine."

Dr. Travis twinkled knowingly. "Oh, come on - I hear you had to treat Steve Sloan. How hard a time did he give you? Did you have to actually use restraints? Sedate him?" He peered over Russell's shoulder at his report.

Russell stiffened a little. Much as he yearned to share a comradely moment with Dr. Travis, he felt sorry for his patient and his obviously undeserved reputation. He was determined to scotch these ridiculous rumors wherever he could. "Lt. Sloan," he said a little reproachfully (not too reproachfully, because Dr. Travis was his supervisor and a bit of a hero of his) "um - I mean, Steve - was a perfect pussycat."

The smile unexpectedly dropped from Dr. Travis' face. His eyes narrowed. "He was," he said flatly.

"That's right." Russell felt more confident now. "He barely made a peep the entire time. I finished stitching him up and he should be settled in his room by now."

"He's staying the night?" Dr. Travis' voice rose sharply. "And you're saying he just went - ?"

Russell hopped backward for the second time that evening at an abrupt change of tone. Really, these people were so - sudden - with their mood swings. "T-that's right," he insisted.

Dr. Travis' eyes jumped from one surface to another, one hand anxiously scrubbing through his hair. "His chart would be at the nurses' station," he said aloud, but obviously to himself. "Where did you say you put him?"

"Um - fourteenth floor. He requested a private room."

"He…?" Dr. Travis stared grimly at him, his expression completely unlike his usual good natured one. "What room number - never mind, I'll ask at the nurses' station." He started for the door at just under a run.

Russell was gaping after him when he turned suddenly and trotted back, aiming a hasty pat at his back. "Good job," he added hurriedly. "We'll talk more later." And then he was gone.

Russell stared, bewildered. Then he started to smile, remembering the feel of the pat on his back.

Just like he had imagined. It really had been a very good night.

_TBC_

_(So, bjp, looks like you're psychic, too - you called this two chapters ago! You guys have really seem me coming a mile away!)_


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Late again, sorry, life just seems to be going a little too fast these days. _

_**15. If at First You Don't Succeed**_

Steve was ensconced in bed and focused on speculatively flicking the remote when the door burst open to disgorge Jesse Travis. Jesse skidded on his heels, just managing to stop himself before he ran into the bed.

Steve glanced over at him, taking in his disheveled appearance. "What are you doing here? I thought you had the night off."

Jesse let out a breath, half relief, half laugh. "I did. But then I got this call from the police that there had been an altercation at my barbecue joint and that my partner had been injured, and that I'd better get over there."

"Oh." Steve digested this. "I didn't think of that. Sorry to interrupt your night."

Jesse tossed his jacket over the end of the bed and sat down next to it. "_You're_ sorry! Steve, you got hurt filling in for me!"

"Huh? Oh, well, better me than you. At least I know how to handle myself."

Jesse poked one of Steve's feet through the covers, the one that didn't have a little contraption tenting the blankets over it. "Hey! You saying that I don't know how to handle myself?"

"No, no - but this guy was on something, and at least I have the advantage of training and my size is a little more intimidating."

"Yeah, I can see that training came in real handy." Jesse gestured with the chart clutched in one hand. "Nice eye."

"I did _not_ get this black eye from that jerk." Steve paused. "_Either_ black eye."

"Uh huh. The nice thing about brains over brawn is that I would have been smart enough to use my dialing finger to call the police - I mean _before_ I needed an ambulance."

"So you're calling me dumb?"

Jesse smiled broadly. "I didn't use that word - you did."

Steve shoved him hard with the foot Jesse had poked just a second before and Jesse had to catch himself to keep from sliding off the bed. "Ouch," Steve added as an afterthought.

"I'll bet." Jesse flipped open the chart. "Russell scared the heck out of me, but everything here seems okay." He glanced through the pages. "Painful, but okay. Even though I've seen novels shorter than this chart. That must have been one heck of a fight."

"It's a long story." Steve grimaced at the memory, then blinked inconfusion as Jesse's first remark landed. "He said he was just keeping me overnight for observation."

"Right. And he said you went peacefully. I figured that at the very least, you had brain damage. More than the usual, I mean." This time Jesse maneuvered too quickly for Steve to get him with his foot, so Steve had to settle for glaring at him. "See what I mean? That move hurt the last time and you still tried it again. Maybe I'd better re-do those CT scans."

"You know, you're not half as funny as you think you are."

"Who's joking? I almost came up here with a crash cart, just to be safe! Oh - yeah - I almost forgot - " He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a rolled up magazine. "I found this at the restaurant. Figured you'd miss it."

"Hey!" Steve smiled with pleasure as he accepted the somewhat crumpled copy of _Motocross_. "Thanks! There's an article in here I've been trying to finish."

Jesse grimaced. "Sorry you didn't get to. Who knew it would suddenly be busy on a Wednesday night?"

Steve shrugged, flipping through the magazine's pages. "Not your fault. How was dinner with your Dad?"

Jesse looked thoughtful, leaning back against the footboard and getting comfortable. "Really nice. I mean, not so much the dinner, but afterward - after the call came, I mean. I was going to send him to the airport in a cab and go check on the place, but he insisted on coming. He helped me clean up and set up the tables and chairs for the night - told me he had waited tables in college. I had no idea. He had some really good stories - really funny - said if we ever needed an extra pair of hands he'd dust off his waiting style. He'd be good, too - did a great job." He shrugged, a little self consciously. "Do y'know, I think it's one of the nicest times we've ever had? Just scrubbing tables. Really like father and son, you know?"

Steve didn't say anything right away, but suddenly the ache in his side didn't seem all that important. "That's great. Where is he now?"

"I dropped him at the airport. That's why it took me so long to get here."

"How's Cristina? She wasn't looking so good last time I saw her."

"She's fine. By the time I got there, she was loading the dishwasher."

"She really going to be all right as a doctor? I know she loves medicine, but that seems like an inconvenient drawback to have."

"Aw, it's not all that unusual - she'll get past it after a couple of years. And she rises to the occasion when she really needs to. Once you passed out, she shook it off to try and stop the bleeding."

Steve frowned. "I did not pass out."

Jesse rolled his eyes. "Yeah? Tell me about when the paramedics got there."

Steve searched his memory. "Okay, maybe I - blacked out for just a second. I remember the ambulance ride, though. Oh. That reminds me - I owe you a t-shirt."

Jesse forehead creased. "What kind of a t-shirt?"

"I borrowed your spare one - at the restaurant. Actually, Cristina borrowed it for me. To make a long story short, it didn't survive the visit from Darla's ex."

Jesse's forehead creased more deeply.

Steve studied him uneasily. "Look, I'll get you another one. There wasn't anything special about that one, was there?"

"No." Jesse sighed regretfully. "I'm just trying to picture you in one of my t-shirts. What did they use to get you into it, a crowbar?"

"Not funny."

"I don't suppose anybody thought to take pictures?"

"A little more and I'm going to show you that I'm not all that hurt."

"See what a good doctor I am? I've got you thinking about getting out of your hospital bed already."

"I'm only in a hospital bed because I'm tired and I'm pretty sure it's the only place I have a chance of getting any rest," Steve retorted. "What are you doing with my chart anyway? You didn't treat me. Aren't there privacy rules about that kind of thing?"

"Ah, but I supervise Dr. Coopersmith, who did treat you. It's my job to follow up on his work."

Steve snorted. "They let you supervise people?"

Jesse smirked wickedly. "I'm mentor to a whole new crop of ER doctors."

"Now _I'm_ scared."

"Well, it's not hard to find you. I can hear arguing all the way down the hall."

Both Steve and Jesse swiveled to the door to see Amanda leaning there, a look that was half maternal fondness, half maternal reproof on her face. She pushed away from the door to enter. "What are you doing here, Jesse? I thought you were off tonight."

"I'm here strictly in visitor's capacity. I got word that there was a little fracas at _Bob's_ and that my partner was hurt."

Amanda studied Steve's swollen eye with a frown. "This happened at _Bob's_? I just heard Steve was admitted and thought I'd stop in before my shift started. What happened, Steve?"

"Oh…" Steve hesitated. He had no idea a) where to start and b) what to include or leave out. "Let's just say that Darla has really bad taste in men and that this one didn't take kindly to her breaking up with him."

"And you defended her honor?" Amanda smiled, touching his chin lightly to tilt his head and get a better look at the other eye. "Very gallant. That's two damsels in distress in one day. If I'd known you were going to be here, I'd have brought the new t-shirt I bought for you. I felt really badly about the one CJ stained - I honestly don't think it's going to come clean."

"Give it to Jesse. I owe him one."

Jesse made a face. "What am I going to do with a t-shirt in your size? Wear it as a dress?"

"What you do in the privacy of your home is your own business, Jess."

Jesse poked Steve's foot again and Amanda shooed his hand away. "Be careful!" she said indignantly. "He's injured!"

The smile Steve bestowed on Jesse was decidedly smug. "That's right. Be careful. I'm injured."

Jesse coughed something about 'milking it' into his fist, then frowned suddenly and flipped through the chart again. He gestured to the foot with the blankets tented over it. "How the heck did you burn your foot in a fight, anyway?"

Steve looked a little flustered. "I - it's a _really_ long story, okay?"

Jesse's brows rose. "I've got time."

"Oh, that reminds me, Steve," Amanda interrupted as an afterthought, "were you and CJ playing cops and robbers or something?"

All remnants of Steve's smile disappeared. "Um - sort of - I guess." Then, more anxiously, "Why do you ask?"

Jesse looked at him in surprise. "What were you doing with CJ?"

Amanda shrugged. "He just seems to have picked up some odd words, and I can't figure out where else he'd get them."

"I was babysitting." Steve shrank back into the pillows and tried to look unconcerned. "Odd words? Like - what?"

"You? Babysitting?" Jesse stared.

"It sounds like _'book him' _- clear as day. I can't imagine where else he came up with it."

"Oh." Steve paled a bit. "Well, he didn't want to watch his videos, so we - did - other things."

"Well, as long as you didn't play too rough…oh, Steve - he didn't pick it up from one of those awful gangster movies of yours, did he?"

"Of course not." Steve was glad to be able to finally answer with complete honesty. "I know you don't approve of those."

"I can't believe you were babysitting. And CJ's still alive?"

Amanda frowned in Jesse's direction. "Steve was doing me a favor," she rebuked. "And CJ had a very nice time with his 'Unca Teev'."

"Yeah, we went to the beach." Steve figured that getting them off the topic of CJ's exposure to police vocabulary as soon as possible was a good idea. "He really likes the water. I could show him how to surf when he gets a little bigger. Hey - he said my name?"

Amanda beamed. "Very clearly. I mean, as clearly as you can with only a couple of teeth." Her smile slipped a little. "I don't know about surfing, Steve…"

"Oh, come on, Amanda - he's a boy. You can't wrap him in cotton. Let his Unca Teev teach him to surf. I promise to stand by in case he gets hurt - Steve, I mean." Jesse neatly dodged another nudge with Steve's foot. "Does he say my name?"

Amanda hesitated. "Well, no, but 'J's are hard, and you didn't just spend half a day with him. Can I trust you two to behave if I leave you alone? I have to get to work."

Jesse shook his head. "Behave, she says. What does she think we're going to do?"

"I shudder to imagine. Get some rest, Steve - you look tired. I'll stop by after my shift and join you for breakfast. You coming, Jesse?"

"I'm gonna keep Steve company until Mark gets here."

"Dad's coming? You called him?" Steve had been flipping through his magazine, looking for his article, but he looked up at that.

Jesse gave him a tolerant glance. "Of course I called him. He's one third owner of _Bob's_ and last time I checked, he was also your father."

Steve groaned. "Did you tell him not to come? I'll bet he just got home - I don't want him have to turn around and come right back - especially for this! It's nothing!"

"I didn't tell him what to do or not to do," said Jesse virtuously. "I just stuck to the facts."

"Great."

Amanda shook her head. "I'll let you two continue your argument. I'll see you later."

Jesse watched her go, then eyed Steve thoughtfully.

Steve squirmed uneasily. "What now?"

"Why didn't you tell me you spent the day babysitting? I would have understood."

"I know that." Steve shrugged, then kneaded absently at his bandaged side at the surprise flash of pain that provoked. "But who knows when you'll see your dad again? And it was good you said, right?"

"Yeah." Jesse looked at him again, then slid off the bed. "Okay, but - well, thanks, then. I'll make it up to you."  
"Darned straight you will. You going?"

"Yeah. I'm going to leave you alone with your magazine. Amanda's right - you look beat. I don't think Mr. Big Tough Cop is tough enough to handle hard time with a thirteen month old."

Steve almost smiled. "Wish I could tell you you're wrong. I don't know how Amanda does it. And _don't_ quote me on that!"

Jesse snorted. "Don't worry! I have to work with her every day and it's hard enough living with all that superiority as it is!"

Steve chuckled, rubbed frowningly at his side again. "Thanks for bringing my magazine."

"No problem. Just take it easy and get well in time to help me clean up that alley - I'd hate for a Health Inspector to come by in the meantime."

Steve's face smoothed into contrite, serious lines, but there was a suspicious glimmer in his eyes. "Don't think I'm going to be able to help you there, friend - that crime scene tape will be down by tomorrow and somehow I don't think I'll be cleared for active duty that soon."

Jesse gave him a sour look. "Oh, so the payback begins already."

The corners of Steve's mouth twitched upward. "Looks like my luck today is starting to change at last. Before you start shoveling, you might want to be sure your tetanus shots are up to date. I hear that's very important when you come into contact with garbage."

"Careful, or I'll have to give Coopersmith special orders regarding your treatment."

"Leave him out of this - he was darned nice to me!"

Jesse grinned. "Are you kidding? I'm probably giving him a medal just for surviving you!"

Steve looked for something to throw as Jesse used his parting shot to make a hasty exit, but the only thing handy was his magazine, and he certainly wasn't letting go of that. He smoothed a creaseout ofthe cover tenderly.

_Alone at last. _Maybe now he could finish his article.

_TBC_

_(One more to go. I promise I'll post it before I travel next week. Short explanation of why I assumed most fanfic readers aren't interested in comedy: one of my best stories is a long, complicated comedy I wrote in another fandom. It's my least read, and nobody's favorite but mine. One of the most popular is one I started a little tongue in cheek - very angsty, very schmaltzy, very h/c - and probably the most popular. It's a perfectly good story and I'm fond of it, but I know it's not as good as the other. So I guess I concluded that most fanfic readers like the angst, schmalz, h/c, all things I'm very fond of myself as well, but maybe DM readers have broader tastes. Anyway, it wasn't a judgment, just an observation, and it doesn't hurt my feelings - I have such a good time writing comedy I'd do it no matter what. Having other people enjoy it just doubles the pleasure.)_


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Oh, well, I had to give Steve a break eventually. I HAVE a heart - it's just a small one. _

_**16. Tomorrow Is Another Day**_

_**or**_

_**Close, but No Cigar**_

That's how Mark found him when he pushed open the hospital room door sometime later. Steve was absorbed in his reading, so Mark lingered on the threshold for a minute, taking advantage of the opportunity to study him unobserved.

He looked pale, Mark decided, and weary - and oddly dotted with a variety of vari-colored bruises. An abandoned dinner tray sat off to the side, scraped so clean that there was no way to tell what it originally held.

Mark assumed he made a sound, or else Steve sensed eyes upon him, because he glanced up toward the door, his face lighting with a smile that contained both greeting and apology.

"Hey." He lowered the magazine. "Sorry you came all the way back here - you didn't have to. It's not much more than a scratch."

"Hm." Mark returned the smile and entered. "Big scratch. According to the notes, it nicked a lung. In fact - " he moved in closer, studying his son's face and mentally cataloguing each mark, "the whole chart made for very intriguing reading."

Steve looked at him suspiciously. "Not a word about that tetanus shot. I mean it - not one word."

Mark's moustache twitched. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Steve tossed the magazine aside and leaned back into the pillows. "Never mind. You've got that 'I told you so' look, and that's worse. I'm just here overnight for observation, anyway. I'll be going home tomorrow."

"Now, see, this is the part I've always had trouble getting through to you - if they DO observe something, then they don't actually let you go home tomorrow. It's not like a hotel reservation."

Steve looked unimpressed with this logic. "As long as you're here, you might as well have a seat. There's a recap of the game soon."

Mark pulled a chair close to the bed. "I know." He nodded toward the empty meal tray. "Is that your first dinner today, or are you making up for lost meals?"

"My first." Steve brightened. "They had meatloaf, though. Man, I was starved."

"You're always starved," Mark pointed out automatically. "If you weren't there to eat dinner, then what were you doing at _Bob's_?"

"Oh - " Steve grimaced. "Jesse had an - emergency - and I was filling in for him. Sounded like an easy gig when I said yes."

"I see." Mark studied him. "And Amanda told me that you did some babysitting for her?"

"Yeah, well," Steve avoided his gaze and found something very interesting in the outline of the single window. "She had - "

"An - emergency - too?"

"Yeah."

"Mm hm." Mark's face softened subtly as he watched him. "I'm sorry your day off didn't turn out quite as you'd imagined."

Steve chuckled. "Dad, I don't think I could have imagined this day if I'd tried."

Mark smiled. "No, I guess not." He rubbed his hands together in sudden animation. "Well, I'll tell you what! Wouldn't you rather watch the recap of the game at home?"

Steve blinked. "I can't. I'm here overnight. Doctor's orders."

"Oh, I know - " Mark leaned forward confidingly. "And it took some doing, but I think I finally convinced Dr. Coopersmith to release you into my care for the night. I know what to look for, and I can get you back here if there seem to be any problems. Do you know, I think he almost didn't want to entrust you to me?"

Steve raised his brows. "He knows you're my father, right? _And_ the Chief of Internal Medicine?"

"Oh, my, yes, but doctors can become very possessive and protective where their patients are concerned. I'm not blaming him - I know I can be that way, too. I think it's a good quality in a doctor. I was thinking maybe we could invite him out to the house next time we have a barbecue, to say thanks. I liked the way he put your well-being before my approval."

Steve gave a short burst of laughter. "Sure. Though I could have told him that you're more than capable of nagging me about my well-being."

Mark pretended to glare. "I'm going to let that one go because I know you've had a hard day. So, what do you say - we'll get you packed up and out of here and you can sleep in your own bed tonight?"

Steve's gaze returned to the darkened window. Her cleared his throat. "I don't know, Dad. It's already late, and I'm settled - I can stay the night. Why don't you go home?"

Mark paused. "Stay?" And blinked. "The night?"

Steve smiled self-consciously. "Yeah - you know. No point in putting everybody through a lot of trouble discharging me at this hour - all that paper work. And upsetting Dr. Coopersmith… I'll just spend the night and go home in the morning."

Mark's gaze narrowed. After a minute he leaned forward and flattened a palm over Steve's forehead.

Steve squirmed away. "Cut that out! I'm fine!"

Mark dropped his hand, still observing him closely. "No fever. And that, at least, was a normal reaction."

Steve reddened. "It's just one night. Look, I'm sorry you had to come all the way down here, I didn't mean for you to - "

"Uh huh." Mark tucked his chin under and studied him over his glasses. "Let me just make sure that I'm clear on this. You - my son, Steven Michael Sloan - are voluntarily agreeing to stay in the hospital overnight? No fuss, no arguments?"

Steve's color deepened. "Well, as long as I'm here - "

Mark rose abruptly to his feet. "That does it. I'm taking a closer look at your chart."

"Dad - !"

"Hi, Dr. Sloan!" Mark jumped back as the night nurse breezed in, pushing a small wheeled cart. "So nice to see you!" The smile she flashed him could have successfully brightened a toothpaste ad. "Don't worry about Steve - we're taking _very _good care of him." She beamed her smile on Steve now, and Mark couldn't help noticing that this smile contained - something - that hadn't been in the one she'd offered him.

He raised his brows in his son's direction. "_'Steve'_?" he queried pointedly.

The nurse's smile faded. "He asked me to call him that. I hope it doesn't seem disrespectful?"

Steve managed a slightly uncomfortable smile for his father. "You know I - hate all that formality."

Mark turned his considering gaze on the nurse. Amazing how scrubs, the most shapeless garments known to humankind, could look so - shapely - on her. "Oh, I'm sure," he agreed politely.

The nurse's smile returned full force at that. "I was just going to give poor Steve a massage. He's very tense - you wouldn't believe how tight his shoulders are!"

"_Are_ they?" Mark switched his quizzical gaze back to Steve.

"Lucy got stuck with the job of giving me a sponge bath," Steve interjected hastily. "Since I defended myself in the struggle with bags of garbage, you can imagine that I needed one."

Mark smiled impishly. "Oh, I can imagine all kinds of things. _Lucy_, hm?"

"Dad - "

The nurse blushed prettily. "Well, Nurse Chesterton is such a mouthful, and it's so hard to be formal with someone after you've given them a sponge bath!"

"I see." Mark's smile stretched. "And, of course, since Steve hates formality…"

"Well, I do."

"Mm hm."

Lucy seemed to remember herself. "But of course, I don't want to interrupt your visit! I could come back later!"

Steve skewered Mark with a meaningful look, and Mark raised his hands in acknowledgment. "No, no - I was just going. Wanted to get home in time to watch the recap of the game. I'll - leave you to it."

Steve rewarded him with a lazy, approving smile.

Lucy straightened her back and smoothed her abundant knot of chestnut hair. "I think Steve was going to watch the recap," she offered. " - if you wanted to stay and watch it with him - "

The pointed look that Steve gave him made Mark grin. "No, I - I really have to go. I'm glad to see that my son is in such - caring hands. Steve, I'll be by to check on you in the morning? And - um - try to follow doctor's orders? No sudden moves?"

"I'll do my best." Steve's tone was decidedly dry.

"I forgot my rubbing alcohol," Lucy interjected tactfully. "I'll go grab it while you two say good night." She slipped out the door.

Mark watched her go, then looked meaningfully at Steve. "So. You, um, think you'll survive the hospital all right for one night?"

Steve's eyes twinkled. "Well, I'd hate to be any trouble."

"Oh, I can see that. Just try not to distract Nurse Chesterton from her other patients?"

"She's off at midnight," answered Steve cheerfully. "She's just hanging around in case I need anything. I guess Dr. Coopersmith told her to take good care of me."

Mark shook his head. "I can see she took that to heart. Don't overdo it - you are a patient. I'll see you in the morning."

Steve grinned. "Thanks, Dad. Drive safe. Remember to buckle up."

Mark was still shaking his head as he exited the hospital room. He received another dazzling smile from Lucy Chesterton as she reentered the room behind him and he returned it with one of his own before pausing at the nurse's station to scan Steve's chart one more time. He was just closing the chart when he heard Lucy whisper, "Dr. Sloan?"

He turned in surprise to see Lucy's head poking out of Steve's hospital room door. She wasn't smiling this time. "Yes, Lucy?" he prompted, feeling a sudden frisson of concern.

"I - could you come here a second?"

Now frowning in earnest, Mark ducked into the room behind her, stopped dead just inside. He stood for a moment, gazing with a mixture of rueful humor and affectionate sympathy.

He heard Lucy sigh beside him. "I shouldn't wake him up, should I?" she said regretfully.

Mark bent forward and carefully eased the magazine out of Steve's lax hand, tugging the covers up over his chest. "No," he agreed kindly. "I'd let him rest. He's had a hard day."

Lucy sighed more deeply, nodding, her eyes resting on his son with an expression that made him smile. "Dr. Sloan, probably I shouldn't ask this, but - " her cheeks pinked. "Is - Steve seeing anyone steadily? I was thinking I might - ask him to call me."

Mark patted her shoulder gently, glancing at the clock. _Almost midnight. This day is done at last, son. _

"You know what, Lucy? Why don't you do that, first thing tomorrow? I think it would be a nice way for him to start the day."

Lucy looked pleased, her thousand watt smile flashing again so that he couldn't help but smile as well.

His smile deepened as he glanced at his son, safe at last in the haven of sleep. He adjusted the covers once more and gave the shoulder under the hospital gown a companionable squeeze, then placed the confiscated magazine on the night table, careful not to lose the page. He glanced at it. Didn't look like Steve'd gotten very far. Oh, well. It would give him something to do while he was recovering.

He glanced over to where Lucy Chesterton was refilling the water pitcher and arranging it within the patient's easy reach and his eyes sparkled. Something _else_ to do, that is. Bed rest might have its compensations. Lucy finished and Mark watched her exit, then reached over to turn down the bedside light.

_Sleep well, son. Pleasant dreams. And just remember - as Scarlett said, tomorrow is another day. _

_The End (June 2005)_

_Thanks to all who read along. I have no doubt that you made me laugh much harder than I ever made you laugh. You made this so much fun. _


End file.
